#comparing his anger to a cup of chamomile

[seiwas]

i maxxed the tags (what did i expect) but!!

what a soft piece ari 🥺 thank you for sharing this hurt/comfort piece w us!! i think satoru will always be a figure of strength—but i think it’s in part because that’s how he brands himself to be around the people he cares about. he’ll never truly share how he thinks and feels about things, will almost always downplay it really. but he’s always worrying, always aware and cautious, overthinking 🥺 and i felt that loads here!!

there’s a shipwreck stuck between your ribs ; satoru gojo

synopsis; three times satoru sees you cry, and the understanding you gain of each other from it.

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, the synopsis speaks for itself i think, copious amounts of hurt/comfort, i just think he’d be so good at comforting u :ccc, also fluff!!, he’s addicted to calling u ”baby,” satoru gojo vs human emotion (he loses)

a/n; pls ignore the fact that 90% of my gojo fics are hurt/comfort ok we dont need to get into that <33 the writing in this one might be a lil rusty but im pretty fond of this gojo :’3

dim lights, buttery popcorn, and boredom.

the senses invading his mind are mellow, coaxing, a little tedious. all he can see are the buzzing lights before him, all he can hear is the insistent chewing of the people around him, and all he can feel is just that:

boredom.

satoru stifles a yawn, resting his cheek on the heel of his palm. he’s trying to pay attention — really, he is. trying to pay attention to the movie he picked out himself, after thoughtful consideration, one he’s been looking forward to watching with you all week. he’s trying his best. but, gosh, it’s just so boring.

or maybe he just doesn’t have it in him today — with all these too-dim lights, too-loud popcorn-chewers, and the too-convoluted plot playing on the big screen in front of him. he has no idea what’s happening, anymore, what scene this is supposed to be. some sob-story? he clocked out a while ago.

so, with nothing better to do — satoru decides to savour another view.

that’s how it always goes. no matter the movie, no matter the snacks, whether you’re watching at home on the couch or a nearby movie theatre — eventually, when his eyelids begin to grow heavy, or when his attention span begins to falter, that blue-soaked gaze of his shifts. a moth to a flame, following his instincts. constantly looking over to see what kind of face you're making. 

after all, your reactions are far more entertaining than any movie could ever hope to be. little sighs of exasperation, jolts and shivers down your spine, or a laughter so bubbly he can’t resist leaning in for a kiss or ten — he loves it. adores it. lives and dies by it. 

so satoru turns his head, and looks at you, knowing you’ll save him from the boredom clutching at his subconscious. 

and something in his chest constricts.

at first, he doesn’t notice it. hungrily lapping over the expanse of your jaw, to your cheekbones, his gaze drinking in everything he can see. scanning your eyes for a hint of emotion; and he finds it. he finds it in something that glimmers in the dim lighting of the theatre, something that has his breath drawing back to the depths of his throat.

tears.

crystalline, dew-drawn, a fresh set of tears clinging to the edge of your lash line. they’ve yet to fall, but satoru sees them — he sees them and he doesn’t know what to do. 

tears. 

tears?

you’re crying.

in the depths of your glassy eyes, he sees a fractured scene — playing against the scope of your iris, as the movie reflects off your pupils. there’s a turmoil there, a sadness, one that has you covering your mouth with the front of your knuckle. and you’re crying.

satoru wants to tease you. he wants to lean over and purr against the shell of your ear, poke fun at you for being so emotional. such a little baby. what else is he supposed to do?

the tricky part is that he can’t. he can’t move, can’t shape his voice into a purr, can’t even speak. he’s frozen in place like a bug trapped in amber, stuck to his seat, unable to do anything but blink at you in what he thinks might be bewilderment.

his breath hitches — and that’s all. 

something about the sight of you makes him falter, makes him stop in his tracks. catches him off guard. he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t recognize the feeling stirred deep within his chest, something discomforting and foreign. doesn’t understand why his heart feels so itchy, all of a sudden.

then your eyes meet.

and you blink. once, then twice. eyes just a little wide, an embarrassed kind of surprise. he thinks you must be flustered, and he’s proven right when your gaze flees from his.

a mingle of words clog up at the base of his throat. say something, say something, say something. but he doesn’t know what. 

he wets his lips, preparing to part them, but before he can get the first syllable out you're leaning in. close. close enough that he feels your breath ghost against the shell of his ear, close enough that his heart starts skipping the way it always does when you press yourself against him like that’s where you belong.

a whisper. it’s small, hushed, a little frail. but there’s something else, too, laced together with the vowels — amusement. 

”you didn’t tell me this was a sad movie.”

a pout plays at your lips, as you murmur your grievances. but then there’s that amusement; it’s there when you pull back, in the crinkle of your sparkling eyes, the curve of your smile. 

and satoru’s shoulders relax. stiffened bones melting. he exhales a breath he had no idea he was holding, and his heart feels at ease. a grin finds it’s way to his lips, wide, teasing, cheshire and sweet. 

he leans a little closer, bumping his head against yours. gently. ”i think you’re just sensitive, baby.”

his teasing is rewarded with a little huff, as your elbow meets his side. soft. everything you do is soft. 

”oh, shut up,” you scoff. smiling. he’s so relieved that you’re smiling. 

a moth to a flame, following his instincts, satoru brings you closer. an arm around your waist, pulling you into his orbit, until you’re practically sharing seats. searching for your hand — and he finds it, intertwining his long fingers with yours, just to give it a little squeeze.

(for some reason, he feels more protective than usual.)

he feels your gaze. questioning, maybe. but you melt into him quickly, with your head slumped against his shoulder, and his heart settles back into a sleepy rhythm. just watching the movie pass you by.

the dim lighting of the theatre casts a hazy shadow over your face, a tender desaturation, and his eyes stay glued to it when you aren’t looking. the smell of popcorn hangs heavy in the air, salty and buttery, warm and sweet, and he’s almost grateful to feel that familiar boredom tug at his veins.

anything is fine. anything is better than that discomfort, that irritating itch. 

satoru watches the movie flicker by, scene by scene, whispering commentary into your ear and stealing your popcorn with a satisfied hum. chuckling when you whisper-shout at him to cut it out!

he tries not to think of the glittering tears at your lash line, and almost succeeds.

rain clouds, cups of chamomile, and frustration.

it seeps out into the open air, engulfing your living room in a feverish haze. thick and suffocating; the scent of heavy rain, lukewarm tea, and that ugly, ugly feeling underneath his skin.

it pulses. it itches. and oh, how it aches.

satoru hates it. he hates feeling angry, feeling upset — hates when either of those emotions are in connection to you. hates it, hates it, hates it more than anything.

he does everything he possibly can to avoid it; his eyes are keen, always have been, and he can see when that thin line he shouldn’t cross crawls a little too close for comfort. when the rubber band of your patience just snaps. he sees all your buttons, knows which ones not to push. he knows you.

and, more importantly, more than anything — nothing you do could ever make him angry at you. 

(well, at least that’s what he thought.) 

satoru’s anger is a fickle thing, controlled, kept under wraps. it’s a slow process; it simmers, boils, a cup of chamomile brewed too long. and then it all but invades his senses. it never gets the best of him, never, but right now he can feel it — little pinpricks against his skin, a frustration that stirs his guts and has his eyes going cold.

satoru towers over you, like this. full height on display. not slouching or draping himself over furniture, but standing tall, and proud, and menacing. he isn’t smiling, and that’s all you need to know that he’s upset with you. his eyes are layered over with discontentment. 

a sigh spills from his lips, a little gruff, unmistakably annoyed. it slices the silence of the room in half, and a shiver travels down your spine. he doesn’t notice it. his voice has a rough edge to it, something firm. something that doesn’t sound like it could come out of his mouth at all.

”don’t act like such a child.”

a flinch. or maybe more like a jolt; this time, he notices, but it’s too late. he’s in too deep, boiled water licking at his ankles, pulling him down. frustration nips at his skin, and he can’t quite seem to push it away.

and you’re just so, so unaccustomed to it. unaccustomed to seeing him wear anything but a smile, unaccustomed to that cold gaze, usually nothing but warm and fond when it meets your own. this isn’t like him.

it’s not like him at all.

swallowing thickly, you do your best to calm down. but before you can make any attempt to contain it, wetness begins to gather in the corners of your eyes. pooling, little droplets yearning to fall.

satoru notices them instantly. he sees that sad glimmer, framed by the murky darkness seeping in from beyond the curtains, accompanied by the symphony of pitter patter against the windowpane. tears, much like the rain beating down outside.

and his chest goes cold.

a tiny sniffle pushes past your lips, and the dam inside you begins to break — tears tripping over your lash line, rolling down your cheeks. cascading across your pretty face. the air fills with a sense of dread, and both of you seem to be thinking the exact same thing.

(oh, fuck.)

satoru notices, belatedly, that his throat has gone dry. that his heart feels itchy, again. it itches and itches but he can’t do anything to soothe it, and your tears continue to fall. 

his heart begins to crack. right down the middle, like a gash in the reflection of a puddle, right across his chest. it hurts.

an inhale, then an exhale. you’re still trying to keep it all together, grasping for control over your emotions, but it’s not going too well. the little breaths that escape your throat are shaky at best, hands trembling as you wipe the tears away with the front of your wrists. and your voice sounds a little like it’s about to crumble away. 

”sorry,” you squeak, taking a step back. there’s a silent panic in the gesture, one that makes satoru want to get down on his knees. ”i’ll just — i’ll leave —”

he wants to stop you. he needs to stop you. but he does nothing, nothing at all, even as you stumble out. leaving the haunting echo of tiny sniffles and tear-stained cheeks behind you. 

satoru just stands there. once again, the sight of your tears seems to render him completely helpless. useless.

and he's frustrated, honestly. frustrated by the argument, by your tears, by his own guilt. he’s so frustrated he wants to claw his eyes out. he scratches at his forearm, but it does no good. all he can think of is your frightened little expression.

(he scared you.)

satoru slumps down on the couch, head in his hands, running rough fingers through his soft hair. it’s unruly by the time he’s done, and his bottom lip is bruised with teeth marks, and everything in the world feels so meaningless. so out of tune.

(he made you cry.)

a sigh. drawn out, tinged with exhaustion, bitter and battered like the swing of a baseball bat. he feels a little like he could throw up. it’s foreign, this emotion, suffocating. how long has it been since he genuinely felt this kind of shame?

the crack in his heart grows deeper, while you’re gone. more severe. every moment you spend outside of his vision makes him falter more and more, makes his desperation grow. desperate to plead for your forgiveness, to convince you not to leave. to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, delicately, the way you deserve. but he can do nothing but sit there, useless, repeating the same old phrase inside his mind.

he’ll make it up to you.

and when you finally come back, having calmed down a bit, he does just that. you’re embarrassed, he can tell, a little meek. it makes him feel that discomforting emotion, again, that ache. the crack that only ever seems to deepen.

but he covers it all up with a smile. a little sheepish, more than a little forced, but he hopes you understand. hopes you can see his remorse, see a man who loves you, because he does. 

so satoru takes you into his arms, softly, hands finding the small of your back. delicate, protective. a little whisper spilling from his lips. 

”’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean it.”

and it’s not enough. he knows it isn’t. but he does what he can — even when it just ends up clumsy, teasing, bordering on something that most would interpret as insincere. all he can do is coddle you. shower you in hugs and kisses, gifts and praises. he hands it out like candy, eager hands finding yours, everything spilling out of his chest all at once. 

there’s a desperation to it that isn’t lost on you.

but it works. he’ll make it up to you; he swears. and he dotes on you until you’re too embarrassed to be sad anymore, apologizes until his throat runs dry. until he’s sure you believe him. 

he brews you another cup of chamomile, stirred to perfection, warm enough to make up for the shiver he sent down your spine. the rain beating down on your windows serves as a constant reminder of his failure, and satoru does his best to ignore it. swallowing what’s left of his frustration, focusing on you.

anything to see you smile again. anything to wash away the red tint to your eyes, the puffy skin beneath them. anything to hear you laugh, to get you to feel safe around him again. 

(anything to make him forget the sight of those tears rolling down your cheeks.)

panic, panic, panic.

it’s all he can feel, all he can think, the only emotion his muddled mind can cling to. he’s in pure, sincere, genuine panic, and you aren’t saying a thing. can’t bring yourself to.

arms wrapped around his waist, tightly, you hide away in the crook of his neck. clutching the fabric of his shirt, burrowing your face deeper into his warmth — and you’re not just crying.

you’re downright sobbing.

satoru knew something was off the moment you fell into his embrace, suddenly, tackling him into a hug so desperate it left him reeling. a kind of desperation he isn’t used to, from you.

he knew something was wrong. 

he knew even before he heard it; your choking sobs, those shaky, heaving breaths. muffled into the cotton of his shirt, his uncertain arms around you.

they break his heart.

”hey, hey…” there’s a soothing lilt to his voice, awfully delicate. sweet like molten honey, almost enough to hide the panic. ”what’s wrong?”

satoru holds you to his chest, safe and secure, cradling you protectively. as if shielding you from the world — from whatever or whoever got you like this. as if you’d crumble into dust, otherwise.

he tries to calm down, but his mind is spinning like a broken clock, and your silence doesn’t help. you’re trying to respond; he knows you are, but you just can’t get the words out. any attempts only make you cry harder.

a shake of your head is all he gets — and it’s not much, but satoru’s learned to make a lot out of a little. 

so he continues to hold you, hiding his worry, tucking his anxiety away somewhere you won’t be able to see. he curses, inwardly, grasping blindly for conclusions — for some divine guidance. how is he supposed to deal with this?

(how long has it been since he felt so very useless?)

gentle. that’s the approach he takes, finally, hiding his nervosity. he rocks you back and forth, just a little, like he’s lulling you to sleep; his warm hands finding the small of your back, the back of your head. cradling you so close you hear his rapid heartbeat by your ear.

soothing whispers. murmured into your hair, so soft they seem to melt once they slip from his tongue, all honey and devotion. affection so palpable you taste it in the air, from the breaths he exhales. 

”it’s fine. i’m here, i’m here… i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but it seems to work. because you calm down, after a while, just sniffling into his neck and letting him soothe you. sobs and unstable heaves, turning into whimpers and shaky breaths. clinging to him all the while; so desperate for comfort, for him.

it makes him feel so, so desperate to protect you, to wash every single one of your worries away.

it’s unbearable, this aching desire. like a great, insatiable, unnamed something deep within the caverns of his chest, clawing at his ribcage, snarling and hissing, itching to break out so it can open its maw and devour you both.

(it’s ugly. it’s grotesque. it wants to keep you safe so badly it might kill him for it.)

a coo. sad, dripping with care, a comforting tone that he hopes you’ll find soothing. he smooths his palm down the back of your head, heavy, doting. it hurts so much to see you hurt.

”my baby….” satoru exhales, a little shaky. but he smiles, and he hopes you can hear it, hopes it’ll help mend the pain in your chest. ”what’s got you this upset, hm? you're worrying me, here…”

a broken sniffle. the guilt eats at you, gnaws at your bones, and all you can do is hide away in the crook of his neck. apologizing, your voice no more than a tremor of a breath.

”’m sorry…”

and satoru thinks his heart shatters. he can practically hear the crash, feel the broken, useless little pieces dig into his skin.

his arms travel down to your hips, steady, and he lifts you up. just for a second, just so he can plop down on the floor with you in tow — keeping you snuggled into his neck. seated on his lap with your legs around his waist, like you’re his baby koala.

”shh, it's okay,” he soothes, a grounding rumble of his chest right by your ear. he’s got you enveloped, wrapped up in his buzzing warmth, and all you can feel is him. ”you’re okay. no matter what it is, i'll take care of it, alright? you can rely on me.”

a moment passes. 

satoru clears his throat. nervous, suddenly. ”you know that, right?”

all you can give him is a shaky nod, but it’s enough. he sighs, in palpable relief, still rubbing circles into your back. ”okay,” he sneaks a hand underneath your shirt, tracing little shapes into your bare skin. ”good.”

he isn’t sure how long you spend there, on the floor, entirely focused on comforting you. washing away all your sadness, with every gentle caress, every soothing murmur of there, there… every little stutter of his heartbeat next to yours.

and when you’ve finally calmed down, melting under his touch and into his skin, arms going lax around his neck — satoru takes a breath. collecting himself, so you don’t have to. acting like his heart isn’t still a mess of crushed glass.

”you okay now?” he coos, drawing absentminded hearts into the skin of your back. his voice is teasing, but warm, spilling from his tongue and into your ear. deep and smooth. ”almost gave me a heart attack, baby.”

he feels the way your grip around him tightens, just a smidge, and he hears the weak little breath you draw in. your voice is still shaky, and it makes him want to rearrange the world, stitch those broken vowels back together. 

(he doesn’t like how irrational it is, this insatiable something. how it makes him want to bend the rules of the universe, just to see you smile. a dangerous temptation.)

”i’m sorry,” you croak, clinging to him like a shipwreck to a shore. ”it’s not — not a big deal, ’m just…” 

satoru pulls back. just a little bit, making sure your arms and legs stay in their rightful place, curled around his neck and waist. making sure the two of you stay connected.

then he pinches your cheek.

”don’t apologize,” he quips, a playful frown on his face. soft, a vague furrow of his brows. like he’s scolding you. 

it makes you wince, your eyes downcast. you look so meek. a little like a kicked puppy, glassy eyes glancing up at him in search of comfort.

satoru clicks his tongue. ”and don’t look at me like that, either.” 

he boops your nose, playful, doting, and you exhale weakly. it’s small, more breath than a real laugh, but you’re almost smiling, and —

it’s a start. it’s something.

satoru coos, voice dripping with warmth, sickeningly sweet. it seeps from his fingertips when he cradles your cheek in his palm, rubbing circles into the puffy skin beneath your eyes. there’s a mirth in his own, crinkled at the edges, tucked into that blue shade, something glazed over with pure adoration.

”there’s that smile.” 

he leans forward, closer, to press a kiss against the bridge of your nose, eyelashes fluttering. tickling your skin. you fall further into his embrace and he makes no move to resist, wouldn’t do it even if he physically could. even if he had the strength to let you go.

then he broaches the subject. hesitant. tactful, careful, delicate — he tries to remember how it works. how to handle something fragile. he thinks of those boxes you carried last week, little porcelain cups. heavy in his arms. he thinks of the way you jab his side with your elbow; gentle, always gentle, even though there’s never any need.

he thinks of you, and it all comes easy. that’s how it always goes.

”wanna talk about it?” he asks, softly. fingers treading through your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. it makes you melt, a little. clearing your throat.

”it’s nothing, really,” you mumble, tiny, seeking respite in the warmth that seeps from his body. speaking with a raspy voice, a hoarse throat, all tired out after crying. ”nothing big, anyway…” 

a moment passes, before you continue. ”i guess it's just been a rough week,” you admit, a sigh slipping from your lips, tinged with pure exhaustion. ”just little things piling up. ’m okay now.” 

a hum. satoru clears his throat.

”anything i can do?”

(please let me help.)

but you only shake your head. ”you’ve already done enough,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. ”think i just needed to get it all out, y’know?”

a beat. an itch. satoru holds you tight, a little tighter than he should. gentle, he reminds himself. but he needs you close enough to feel the flutter of your heartbeat, close enough to delude himself that you’ve merged together. closer isn’t close enough.

he gnaws at his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the flesh. pulling words out from the back of his throat, uncertain. ”i’m always here,” he settles on. ”if there’s anything you need, come straight to me. okay?”

a frown plays at your lips. you’re silent, for a while, until he hears you mumble beneath your breath.

”i don’t want to bother you so much, though…”

”— it’s not a bother.”

the words spill into the air, a little more firm than he meant to sound. but he means them.

”i’m serious. if you ever need help, with anything, come find me. i’m yours,” satoru inhales, deep, his chest moving in tune with the breath. you’re carried along with it, as if being lulled to sleep, following the steady pattern of his lungs. 

then he exhales. in, and out, and with it comes a promise. ”if anyone makes you cry, i’ll get rid of them.”

he says it casually, so casually that you assume it’s a joke, a bout of breathless giggles pushing past your lips. the sound has his own curling up, and he doesn’t have the heart to correct you. has enough tact to know that this might not be the best moment to let you know that he’s honestly a little terrified of how far he’d be willing to go to keep you safe and happy. 

but you’re smiling, finally, laughing. and that matters more than anything. when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can even feel the telltale signs that his heart is picking itself back up, gluing jagged shards into a shape that resembles you.

"that's scary!” you gasp, amusement bubbling up inside your throat. ”you’d go to jail for me?”

satoru huffs. ”bold of you to assume i’d get caught,” he tuts, a smug smile on his face. it makes you giggle, again, and he feels like a god.

”okay, okay,”  you nose at his neck, breathing him in, strawberry lotion and laundry detergent filling your senses. ”please don’t kill anyone on my behalf, though.”

”no promises.”

”satoru…”

slowly, steadily, his heart begins to stitch itself together. it helps that you’re there, he thinks. helps that you’re pressed up against him, that you’re holding him, like he’s the safest thing in the world. like you trust him.

(the word tastes like molten honey and luscious berries, sickly-sweet on his tongue. he gulps it down hungrily.)

it’s healing. the weight of your arms around him, the breaths that brush against his neck. he holds you to keep you together, intact, to keep himself together. a shipwreck and a shore — he just isn’t sure which one of you is which. but your jagged edges fit just right with his own.

”i don’t like seeing you cry.”

you blink. gazing up at him, with a contemplative look in your eyes. it melts into something a little too close to guilt for his liking. shame.

”— but i still want you to let me see you like that.” satoru smiles, with a tilt of his head. snowy tufts of hair falling across his face. ”is that weird?”

a moment passes. then you hum.

”no,” you exhale, a little breathless. smiling, somewhat weak, but still enough to have his heart skipping a beat. ”i love that about you, satoru.”

”huh?” he gapes at you — blinking dumbly. ”love what? that i want to see you sob into my chest?”

”that you try,” you stifle a yawn, sleepily nuzzling into him, all tuckered out from crying. ”even when it makes you a little uncomfortable.”

satoru stills. 

silence fills the space between you. there’s nothing more to say. his tongue isn’t really cooperating with him, anyhow — all tied up. so he leaves a kiss on the top of your head, and doesn’t say a word about the tremor running through his chest. 

he hates seeing you cry. hates how powerless it makes him feel, how useless. hates the fact that he can’t always protect you from the world, from himself.

but you let him see you like that.

he thinks of your tears, crystalline and glassy, like translucent marbles on a summer shore — and sees the trust instead of the sorrow. he thinks of your tearstained face, meek and feeble, and knows it’ll always be enough to break his heart to pieces. 

he thinks of you, and tells himself that it’s worth it; just as long as he gets to bring that pretty little smile back to life. 

[totowlff]

chapter five — trust

➝ ross brawn’s tumultuous departure from mercedes was nothing compared to what elisabeth and toto’s relationship had become. elisabeth goes to brackley to manage the fallout, but things only get more complicated.  

➝ word count: 2,4k

➝ warnings: none

➝ author’s note: enjoy!

NOVEMBER, 2013

Elisabeth slammed the black car door with a force completely disproportionate to what it took to close it, but proportionate to the anger she felt. The sound caused by the impact caught the attention of two employees, who were standing in front of the curvilinear building, talking, their eyes widening as she approached.

— Good morning, Elisabeth — one of them greeted her. He had a smile on his face.

— Good morning — she replied, dryly, not even looking at him. Her steps were heavy as she entered the lobby of the Mercedes AMG F1 headquarters in Brackley, focused on a singular mission.

Confront Toto Wolff.

She’d received an email from Bradley Lord, the team’s communications director, the night before. The message contained a link to an article — an exclusive Motorsport Magazine interview with Ross Brawn, who had just said goodbye to the team after a turbulent season. His departure was apparently all very hush-hush.

Her personal relationship with Brawn was cordial, but it was impossible not to notice something strange in the air when he was with her father and Toto. The harmony that had existed between the three of them at that first dinner in Vienna had completely disappeared. The way she saw it, the reason for such animosity was the simple fact that there were too many people wanting to run the same team. His interview confirmed her suspicions. 

However, Elisabeth hadn’t expected his revelations to be so harsh.

— What happened at Mercedes was that people I couldn’t trust were forced on me —  she muttered, reading the article's lede, dropping the cup of chamomile tea she was sipping on her desk in disbelief.

The rest of the interview made her stomach churn, with Brawn claiming to be disappointed in her father and Toto’s approach to the business. However, what made her drive nearly two hours from her Soho apartment to Brackley was Ross’ statement regarding the hiring of Paddy Lowe as the executive director earlier that year. According to Ross, Toto laid all of the blame on Niki for the decision.

— Liar — she growled, clenching her fists. 

She was at the dinner where the matter was discussed — it had been Toto’s idea to ask Lowe to work for Mercedes, starting in 2014. Her father was against the idea, saying it would be better to talk to Ross about it before signing anything with Paddy.

“How could he have been so underhanded?”, she thought, clenching her teeth.

With the clack of her heeled black shoes echoing on the gray floor, Elisabeth entered the building in silence, frowning. Her right hand was gripping the strap of her black bag that was slung over her shoulder. The oddly empty trophy case and the W03 displayed in the foyer were just blurs in her peripheral vision as she made her way to the elevator.

— Good morning, Miss Lauda — she stopped when she heard Alina, the receptionist, greet her warmly. As Elisabeth turned to face her, she concluded that her expression must have been frightening, as it made the smile on her face abruptly disappear.

— Is Wolff here today? — her voice came out cold as ice.

— Yes, Miss Lauda — she said, timidly.

— Great — she muttered, continuing towards the elevator in silence, the click of her heels following her.

The metal doors opened and Elisabeth stepped inside, pressing the button for the third floor. As the silver doors slid close, she turned to the mirror in the back of the elevator car, examining her reflection. Dressed in a black coat and with a red scarf wrapped around her neck, she looked elegant, however, her irritation was clear in her posture and in her expression. 

As she exited the elevator, she looked both ways down the corridor before heading in the direction of Toto’s office. Elisabeth walked like a woman on a mission. She approached the glass-walled room and realized it was empty. The lights were off. However, the suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair was an indication that he was here, somewhere.

But… Where?

Elisabeth turned to the right and noticed that several pairs of eyes were looking at her with curiosity, peering over several rows of computer screens. They were probably wondering what Niki Lauda’s daughter was doing there in Brackley on a freezing Thursday, and why she looked so furious.

— Where is he? — she asked, jerking her thumb towards the office behind her. Her voice was completely absent of any warmth. It caused the employees to glance at each other, nervously. 

— He’s in a meeting — a young man said, almost bracing himself for her reaction.

— Where? — Elisabeth said, looking directly at him, her tone firm. She wouldn’t be leaving that building today without speaking to Toto, face-to-face. 

— End of the hall, last door on the left — a red-haired woman, sitting next to him, replied, her voice a little shaky.

The shadow of a smile passed over her lips.

“Time to talk, Toto”, she thought.

— Thanks — she said, abruptly. Elisabeth turned back to the hallway and walked towards the room the staff had pointed out. As she approached the door, she could hear voices from inside. One voice stood out — one with a distinct accent that she knew very well.

— Last on the left. Here it is — she muttered to herself. She reached out to grab the doorknob and took a deep breath. Elisabeth needed to gather her courage for this.

“Moment of truth”, she thought as she turned the knob, flinging the door open. Inside the room, there were at least seven people seated around a rectangular table, watching a presentation by a representative from Puma of next year’s team kit.

— Toto, we need to talk — she shouted. In one movement, all of the eyes in the room went from her to Toto, seated at the head of the table. He was sitting with his mouth slightly open, as if he couldn’t believe what she was doing.

— Elisabeth, I don’t know if you noticed, but you just…

— Interrupted your very important meeting about — she added, looking at the screen, which displayed some sketches — Commemorative caps? Yes, I’d noticed, and I don’t give a fuck.

Toto took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He was irritated.

— Could you wait in my office until I’m done?

— Negative — she snapped.

— Please? — he practically purred.

— My business with you is way more important than this… Shit — she spat, gesturing at the screen with her head. The Puma representative glared at her, clearly outraged by her words.

— Liesl…

Toto using his silly nickname for her had her clenching her jaw, anger building inside her. Elisabeth couldn't understand how he could treat this situation like a joke, especially when it involved something as serious as her father's relationship with investors. Trying to control herself, she crossed her arms over her chest, impassive. With his eyes glued to her, Toto shifted in his chair and ran a hand through his brown hair, visibly uncomfortable.

She had definitely put him in an incredibly awkward position.

— I think a five-minute break wouldn’t do any harm — a woman said in a placating tone, rising from her seat — Right, Toto?

— Yes, absolutely — Toto replied absently, his eyes locked with Elisabeth’s.

— Shall I show you to our coffee counter, gentlemen? — the woman said, gesturing toward the door. Elisabeth was still standing at the threshold with her arms crossed, staring Toto down.

Slowly, the meeting’s attendees rose from their chairs and passed through the doorway, walking by her without a word. “Stupid asshole”, she thought as the Puma representative walked past her, staring at Elisabeth with a reproachful look, which was answered by her raised eyebrow.

When the final attendee left, she entered the room and turned back towards the door, closing it and clicking the lock shut. She didn’t want any interruptions, or for Toto to try to make a run for it. Then, Elisabeth turned to face him, dropping her black bag on the table as she walked in his direction. Toto followed her with his eyes, shifting in his chair, running a hand through his hair again.

— I’m all ears.

— You’d better be, because I have a lot to say — she said, resting her palms on the table, leaning over the surface. She was trying to stare him down, but Toto’s height meant that their eyes were level.

Toto sighed.

— Go ahead.

— What’s this I hear about you blaming my dad for hiring Paddy Lowe when Brawn came to talk to you?

— Ah, I see you read the interview — his expression changed as he connected the dots.

— Of course I read it, Bradley sent it to me last night!

He continued to gaze at her with an appraising stare.

— Come on, speak! — she exclaimed. 

— Speak what?

— What the fuck was that idea of blaming my father? — she said, slapping the table.

— Well, Niki agreed with me…

— But he didn’t come up with the idea!

— I know, Elisabeth.

— So why did you say that to Brawn? — she was practically yelling now, standing from where she was leaning at the table. As she moved, Toto rose from his chair as well.

— Because I needed to buy time!

— And do you have any idea what you’ve done?

— What did I do, Elisabeth? — he asked in a mocking tone, which added to her irritation with him — Tell me what I did!

She rounded the table to approach him, her pulse roaring in her ears.

— You just sold out my dad as the main culprit for Brawn’s departure and you know how much investors liked him! What about my father’s image, Toto? 

— You talk like Ross didn’t say I couldn’t be trusted, either! — he snapped, taking a step forward. He walked toward her, drawing himself up to his full height. He was so tall that Elisabeth had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with him. However, if Toto thought that would intimidate her, he was very wrong.

Actually, she found that she was… Turned on.

— How will he deal with the questions when he's not to blame?

— You're far too worried about this considering you have nothing to do with it — he spat.

— My father has a reputation to uphold, Toto!

— If he cared about his reputation, he would be here talking to me like a normal person instead of…

— Instead of what? — she screamed, getting as close to his face as she possibly could.

He stared down his nose at her, hesitant.

— If you have any balls, you’ll finish that sentence — she growled, close enough to him that they were practically touching, close enough that Elisabeth could feel the heat radiating off of his body. 

— If he cared — Toto said, putting emphasis on each word. — He’d be here talking to me instead of sending his pretty little girl to yell at me.

She blinked. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

— What did you just say?

— Fuck, Liesl — he growled, before putting his hands on her face and pulling her toward him. He brought his lips to hers with a delicacy that was a sharp contrast to the harsh words they’d just exchanged. The gentleness of his kiss dissolved all the anger and contempt Elisabeth was feeling, leaving only the desire that was dammed up inside her since New Year’s Eve, in his office. His tongue asked for passage and, almost immediately, Elisabeth gave in, leaning her head against his left palm. Soon, her hands found his torso, pulling his body flush with hers as she felt her own body laying back against the hard surface of the conference table.

What had started as a curious exploration, as if they were both getting to know each other, became an intense exchange between the two of them, each of them holding onto each other as if they were the air each of them needed to breathe. 

She’d never wanted to feel a person’s touch like she wanted to feel Toto’s.

She’s never wanted to taste someone as badly as she wanted to taste Toto.

And Elisabeth wanted more. 

But then, then, in a fit of awareness, she realized what she was doing.

She was kissing Toto. He was on top of her.

Toto was the closest thing her father had to a friend. 

“This is wrong”, her mind screamed.

Moaning against his mouth, Elisabeth managed to push him away, panting. 

— No, no, no, no —  she muttered, completely disoriented — We can’t do this, I can’t, no…

— Elisabeth — Toto spoke quietly. She completely ignored him, rising from the table Toto had placed her on without her even noticing, adrenaline and regret coursing through her veins. In her mind, millions of thoughts were going on at the same time, faster than a Formula 1 car.

“I need to get out of here”, Elisabeth told herself mentally.

She picked up her bag from the table and dashed towards the door. Then, she turned the knob, unable to get the door open.

— What the fuck — she snarled, tucking a strand of her light-brown hair behind her ear.

— Have you tried unlocking it? — Toto asked, trying to hold back his laughter.

“Damn it”, she thought. Her hands trembled as she released the lock, freeing her from the conference room. Then, she strode quickly down the hallway towards the elevator. Around her, the faces were just a blur, the words seemed far away. Everything was drowned out by the roar of her pulse in her ears.

— Are you okay, Elisabeth? — someone asked.

— Miss Lauda, we heard screaming — said another.

— Liesl, wait — a voice yelled.

However, she ignored them all. She smashed the button to take her down to the ground floor and breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator door opened immediately, allowing her to step inside. Then, Elisabeth heard the elevator doors close behind her and allowed herself to look up, staring at her own reflection in the mirror. Her hair was messy, her lips red and slightly swollen, the red scarf around her neck was lopsided.

“What did I just do?”, she asked herself, hearing the pleasant, disembodied voice of the elevator announce that she was on the ground floor. Adjusting the posture and taking a deep breath, Elisabeth slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked back through the lobby, leaving the building.

— Miss Lauda — she heard Alina call behind her. Stopping halfway, she turned her face over her shoulder.

— Yes?

— Did you find Mr. Wolff? — she asked.

She hesitated for a few seconds.

— Yes, I did.

[five-rivers]

Solutions to Nonlinear Equations

For @currentlylurking for the Phic Phight.  :)

.

“Ancients, Vlad.  I’m not rejecting you because I’m a rebellious teenager and you’re an adult, I’m rejecting you because you’re incredibly creepy.”

Vlad sniffed in what he hoped was an aristocratic manner and raised an eyebrow, minutely adjusting his grip on Daniel to keep him pinned to the floor.  

“We’re human-ghost hybrids, Daniel.  I’d hoped that you’d have realized by now that we are meant to be ‘creepy.’”

Daniel squirmed and began to mutter into the carpet. “Clockwork never acts like this, I’m fine with him—”

Vlad pulled back as if burned.  He hadn’t heard that name in—in—

In a long time.  

Years.  

The thought was almost expelled from his head when Daniel managed to elbow him in the jaw hard enough to make him see stars. Before he knew it, Daniel had slipped from his grasp and zoomed away.  

Whatever aspersions Vlad cast on Daniel’s mastery of his ghostly abilities, the boy was fast.  When he put his mind to escaping instead of picking a fight, he managed it more often than not, to Vlad’s great frustration.  Hence Vlad’s usual strategy of needling the younger half-ghost until fighting was the only thing on Daniel’s mind.  

He set down on a nearby roof.  There went his plans for the day.  Which, admittedly, had consisted of distracting Daniel while his ghostly minions set up a nasty surprise for him at the school, hence making him fail his test, which would, in turn, convince Maddie and Jack to let Vlad set Daniel up with a tutor, something he had suggested to them earlier, and—

Well.  Daniel would find them, now, no doubt.  

Ah, well.  

He had more important things on his mind, now.  Such as, how in two worlds did Daniel know Clockwork?  Because Daniel never just said things like that.  He barely knew anything about ghost culture.  He wouldn’t know to bring up obscure, secretive, ghost historical figures.  He wouldn’t know what that particular name would mean to Vlad.  

Tongues of fire flared out of his fingers, bringing a measure of stability to the gyrations of his core and his emotions.  

Daniel knew Clockwork.  And, it seemed, met him with some regularity.  Enough for him to compare his actions to Vlad’s.  

Would that ghost never be satisfied with ruining Vlad’s life?  Was he not satisfied with—

He cut off the thought, shaking his head.  Never mind that.  

What Vlad needed to do was find Clockwork.  Which meant inducing Danny to go to him at a time when Vlad when Vlad could follow.  Which meant determining when he had visited Clockwork in the past.  An undertaking to be sure.  

He closed his eyes and teleported to his lab beneath his mansion.  

“Maddie!” he called out, even before his body had fully reformed.  

The hologram flickered to life with a faint crackled from the projector.  “What is it, sugarpie?” it asked with a smile.

“Review the audio recordings from Fentonworks,” ordered Vlad.  “Search for the term ‘Clockwork.’  Report findings to me.”

“Sure thing, honey!”

Vlad had to review the cheerfulness settings on the Maddie program.  Maddie was upbeat, but not that upbeat.  This was almost sickly sweet.  

He threw himself into a nearby chair.  

Clockwork.  He thought he’d never hear that name again.  Not after he’d been literally and figuratively ghosted by him.  

He telekinetically pulled a book off his shelf. He ran his fingers over the leather tooling on the cover.  The book had been given to him by Clockwork, years ago, when he was still in that hospital.

Clockwork had been the one to first show him the Ghost Zone, and all the wonders in it.  Clockwork had been his friend, his only friend, through that long, agonizing hospital stay. He had been supportive, wonderful, kind. He visited often, though not on a regular schedule.  He’d helped Vlad ride out the waves of misery and anger that so often threatened to overwhelm him.  

Then, without warning, nothing.  

No goodbye.  The last time he left, he had even said something along the lines of ‘see you soon,’ although the memory was frayed from age and Vlad could no longer recall the exact words.  For a long time, Vlad had worried something disastrous had happened to Clockwork. But then he had finally managed to build his own portal, reach the Ghost Zone under his own power, and, according to every search he did, every line of inquiry that bore fruit, Clockwork was just fine.  

Vlad had been furious.  He had been betrayed.  He had spent the better half of a decade trying to plot revenge against Clockwork, before realizing that was akin to plotting revenge against a god and turning his sights to a more manageable target.  

Now…

Now, Vlad just wanted answers.  Both as to the reason behind his abandonment and as to why Clockwork was apparently repeating history with Daniel.  

“Sweetie pie,” said the hologram, with a chime, “audio processing complete.  There are over ninety-nine instances where the word ‘clockwork’ is mentioned.  Would you like to play the selected files?”

“Yes,” said Vlad.  “Include the video portions where available, and the thirty seconds immediately prior to and following the mention.”

He turned his attention to the nearest screen.  He had a lot of videos to watch.  

There was an envelope pinned to it.  It was sealed with wax, impressed with the image of a pocket watch and the initials CW.  Vlad attempted, and failed, to suppress the growl that grew in the back of his throat. Was this a joke to Clockwork?

He tore the envelope from the screen, ripped it open with equal viciousness, and began to read.

.

Three cups sat on the tea service tray next to the teapot.

“Are you expecting someone else,” asked Danny, “or am I going to break one of these?”

Clockwork chuckled as he began to pour the tea.  “The former,” he said.  “Although you may always surprise me with the latter.”

He handed Danny his cup.  Danny inhaled deeply.  It smelled sweet.  “What is it?” he asked.  

“A chamomile blend,” said Clockwork.  “For calm.”

“I think Sam drinks chamomile before she goes to bed,” observed Danny, offhandedly.  “Who’s coming?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Danny made a face.  “Do you have to be mysterious all—”

The front door of Clockwork’s lair slammed open, and Danny jolted forward in alarm – the only people who regularly did that were the Observants, who didn’t much care for Danny – but Clockwork put a steadying hand on his shoulder and rewound his tea into his cup.

“Clockwork!” came the expected yell.  The yeller, however…

“Is that Vlad?” asked Danny, not quite scandalized, but more than a little surprised.  

“Why, yes,” said Clockwork.  

“Did you – Clockwork, did you invite him here?”

“Other than the Observants,” said Clockwork, “no one can enter unless I will it.”  He took a sip of his tea.  

“But,” started Danny.  

Clockwork raised a hand.  “Don’t worry, he’ll find us soon enough.”  He repurposed the hand to pat Danny’s knee.  “And even should he prove to be in a combative mood, I will not allow you to come to harm.  You are safe here, Daniel.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Danny, looking away, towards the door in the sitting room through which Vlad would presumably enter.  

Sure enough, a few seconds later Vlad half-flew half-skidded into Clockwork’s sitting room.  He leveled an accusatory finger at Clockwork.  “You!” he proclaimed, with a great deal of venom.  

“Hello, Vladimir, I’ve poured you some tea.  Why don’t you sit down?  I understand it has been some time.”

“You under-?  No!  I will not sit down!  I will not drink your tea.  Not after you abandoned me for over a decade, just like that bumbling oaf—”

“Hey!” interjected Danny, not only because Vlad had once again insulted his father, but because he could tell that Clockwork, regardless of his stoic façade, was actually quite upset.  

“Don’t interrupt me, Daniel,” snapped Vlad.  “You don’t know what this, this ghost is. What he does.  You don’t know that he gets close to you, makes you think you’re friends, and then drops you without a moment’s notice.  Did you think it was funny to string along a man in dire straits? Did you?”

“I did not abandon you, Vladimir, I—”

Vlad scoffed and went on a tirade that Danny honestly found hard to parse.  But it sounded like Vlad and Clockwork had known each other in the past and then fallen out of contact in a way that aggravated Vlad’s abandonment issues.  Which didn’t seem like Clockwork at all, but Vlad sounded extremely certain and insistent, and Clockwork’s upset was actually finding its way into his voice, now.  Danny didn’t—

With all the force and abruptness of epiphany, Danny realized what was going on here.  

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Danny, putting down his cup. “Vlad, breathe or whatever.  Clockwork, you did tell Vlad that you experience time nonlinearly, right?”

“Of course,” said Clockwork, clearly offended.

“But Vlad, ah, had you gone through natural portals often when you met Clockwork?  Or, like, did you ever see him without him initiating contact?”

“I didn’t have my portal built yet, Daniel, so, no.”

Danny turned to Clockwork.  “Why did you-?  No that doesn’t matter.  Haaauuuhh, Clockwork, do you have-?”

Clockwork waved a hand and a whiteboard appeared.  

“Thanks,” said Danny, picking a marker up from the little shelf on the bottom.  He uncapped it, then recapped it.  “Actually, before that.  Vlad—” he pointed at Vlad, who looked about one second from exploding “—you have some idea of how old Clockwork is, right?  Or at least how old ghosts can get?”

“Yes, Daniel,” said Vlad, managing to overlay his supercilious ‘I know better than you’ attitude over his still obvious anger.

“Okay, great.  So, just to establish, Clockwork has been around at least since, uh, beginning of time?”

“Give or take,” agreed Clockwork.  “Although I have not experienced it all directly.”

“Right,” said Danny.  “Just, already, his perception of time is different from our because of age differences.”

Vlad looked slightly less angry, and slightly closer to curious.  

“But, then, there’s the larger issue,” continued Danny.  This time his uncapping of the marker was decisive.  He drew a flat, straight, horizontal line across the whiteboard.  “This is our timeline.  We deal with time linearly.  We’ve also got, I don’t know, parallel timelines, like this.”  He drew several more lines.  “You following so far?”

“Yes, Daniel, I’ve read my share of science fiction.”

He was probably rolling his eyes.  Curse his solid-colored red eyes.  It made interpreting his looks and figuring out where he was looking during a fight much more difficult.  

“Anyway, Clockwork isn’t on any of these lines. Because he experiences time nonlinearly.”  He drew a squiggly up and down line on the board that resembled the world’s saddest sine wave.  Or cosine wave.  There wasn’t a y-axis on the not-quite-graph, so it wasn’t like anyone could tell the difference.  They were effectively the same.  

And Vlad still made fun of him for failing math. Danny knew plenty about math.  He just didn’t have time to do the work.  Mostly because of Vlad.  

“Now, that, that is Clockwork’s timeline.  It isn’t always in contact with ours.  It’s, like, solutions to a system of equations. Nonlinear equations,” he specified, in case it had been too long since Vlad had encountered basic high-school-level algebra.

“It is somewhat more complicated than that, Daniel,” said Clockwork, exasperated.  “It’s more of—"  

“Yeah, but this gets the idea across more than the whole parade metaphor, doesn’t it?”

“I would say not.  This doesn’t even begin to touch on my abilities.”

“That’s because we’re just talking about your perception of time,” said Danny.  He considered for a moment.  “And also your ability to interact with our timeline.”

“Which includes my ability to perceive multiple timelines.”

“But that’s complicated, and I still don’t get it,” complained Danny.  

“It is less complicated than what you are currently trying to explain.”

“To you maybe, but the whole point of this is that you aren’t seeing things the same way we are.  You disappeared on Vlad, what, a decade ago?”  He looked to Vlad for confirmation.  

“A decade is hardly any time at all,” said Clockwork with exasperation.  He sipped at his tea.  

“It was fifteen years.”

Clockwork made a somewhat dismissive motion with a gloved hand.  “It’s a tiny fraction of your life as a whole.”

“It’s… closer to a third of his current lifetime,” said Danny with a wince.  “Or a fourth?  I don’t know how old you are, dude.”

“I went to college with your parents.”

“I know, and you were already graying then. Your age is weirdly hard to place.”

Vlad gave Danny a look, but his body language was no longer screaming ‘I’m going to beat the snot after you.’  Danny counted that as a win under the current circumstances.  He disliked Vlad, but in a fight with Clockwork… Well, Clockwork could demolish just about anyone.  

Not that Clockwork would.  Just that he could.  

“Daniel—”

“Please, Vladimir.  Just sit down.  Try the tea. I made it for you.  I knew you would be upset, although I could not see exactly why.”  Clockwork was almost pouting, now.  “Fifteen years is such a short time.”

“Clockwork, I’m fifteen.”

“I know,” said Clockwork, patting Danny on the knee. “Your timeline is so small.  And cute.”

Vlad was now distinctly on his back foot, offput and disarmed.  “His timeline is cute?”

“It is.  Don’t worry, yours is almost as cute.”

Vlad opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish. Danny pushed the whiteboard away.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” he said.  “Like I said, different perception of time.”

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel abandoned, Vladimir.  I simply wanted to give you some time to, ah, how should I put this?  Have space?  Find yourself?”

Vlad sat heavily on the couch.  

“You get used to it,” said Danny.  “But, Clockwork, do you think you can talk him into having fewer evil plans?  Because, really.  There are way too many.  Like, one a week.  They’re destroying my grades.  Have you ever seen anyone else who had weekly evil plans?”

“Evil plans, Vladimir?  Really?”

[cherrywoes]

bambi. miya osamu x f! reader.

au: idol au

pairing: miya osamu x female reader.

word count: 1.5k

prompt: established relationship.

rating: 16+

tw: alcohol, strong language, inferiority complex.

summary: osamu struggles with comparisons to his brother, but you’re always there to comfort him in the end.

genre: fluff, comfort fic.

a/n: this is part of the cafe x hangout collab! hopefully it’s fluffy enough for everyone’s tastes, it isn’t sickeningly sweet--it’s just enough. i hope everyone likes it! <3

“THANKS, EVERYONE.” Osamu yawned into his hand sleepily. The bright white of his screen kept him awake, along with the endless stream of comments popping up in the left hand corner of the screen. Several of them lamented that he was leaving so early, but a quick glance at the clock revealed that it had been over four hours that he’d been streaming—so almost immediately after he had gotten home, then. A rustling in his kitchen, so faint he barely heard it, snapped his attention back to the Instagram live he was about to shut down. He ran a hand through his hair, destroying it even further than it already was, and shrugged to the screen. “I’m going to call it a night, guys. I’m pretty tired and I have a packed schedule tomorrow; remember to rest and take care of yourselves.”

He ended the stream without looking at the rest of the comments, his eye barely catching one reading ‘Atsumu would have stayed on longer until he fell asleep :(‘. Closing his eyes tightly against the bright light, Osamu huffed and tossed his phone on his bed. He didn’t want to look at it right now—not when every time he logged on to Instagram it was to Atsumu’s cheery face, snapping selfies with his fans or whatever cafe he’d happen to stumble upon that particular day. They were just cafes he’d introduced his brother to, but every time he mentioned them he would have to move on and find another one to get away from all of the attention Atsumu brought him.

His own fans were okay—but Atsumu’s were on an entirely different level. From stalking his every move, staking out his apartment for discreet photos of his bare face and pajamas when he took out the trash, investigating everyone who came and went from his apartment (thankfully he lived in a complex where a lot of A-list celebrities lived), and even running down his license plate number to follow him on the road.

It was ridiculous. Osamu just wanted a quiet existence separate from his identity as an idol, but whenever he turned a corner, there was Atsumu dragging him into another crowd of people, exposing him to his insane fans and getting them to like him, too. He’d virtually given up trying to have some semblance of a private life, smiling politely whenever he was photographed in public and tiredly soothing fans who would break out into tears whenever they passed him on the street.

“‘Samu?” You poked your head past his door, scanning for his phone to see if he was still live. When the light bounced off the phone screen on his bed, you stepped further inside, this time revealing a tray of food, chamomile tea—Osamu could smell it—and his migraine medicine. “I brought you dinner—well, a late dinner, but I know you didn’t eat before you came home—”

Except you. A particularly bright spot in his life, the only one if he was to be honest; a reminder of what he came home to every day when his ‘idol’ facade was over until the next day. He sat up and mused his hair into something resembling the style he usually wore, although judging by the little giggle you tried to hide he had probably failed in that aspect.

You set down the tray on his desk, reaching over and smoothing down the pieces that stuck up like duck feathers in the back of his head. He leaned forward and pressed his nose into your collarbone, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you closer. He sighed, all of the tension and anxiety deflating from him like a balloon, and smiled his first genuine smile of the day when you tipped his head back to look at his face.

“Aw, ‘Samu,” you tutted, swiping your thumbs underneath his eyes. “You look so tired nowadays; is Atsumu bothering you again? You know I can set him right, if you want me to.”

Osamu grimaced at the thought of you ‘setting his brother right’. The last time it had happened he had been sitting between the both of you while you yanked on Atsumu’s ear and hair with all of your might, screeching your fury—and Osamu’s irritation—at his brother. Naturally, it had gotten through his twin’s thick skull, but only for a few weeks before he was back at it again, shoving media attention at him worse than before. Those weeks had been the best days of Osamu’s life; even his management had commented on it, saying he looked more livelier when he was performing.

“No,” he sighed. You drummed your fingers against his brow bone, waiting for him to elaborate, and hummed softly to yourself while you did. “Not really. It’s more… Comparing me to him again, I guess.”

You clucked your tongue thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s your fans that I need to set straight then, hmm?”

You were no idol. It was different for actresses, at least for now; you could be as rude or curt to your fans about their behavior if you wanted, whereas he had to be kind, docile, polite—all of which Osamu was decidedly not in normal company. He was as snarky and droll as Atsumu was normally, but that contradicted their identity as ‘twins’; management couldn’t have two of the same person, even if they were different in their own ways. Their consumers wouldn’t see it that way.

Keeping your relationship—while serious—secret had been the worst part of it all. He hated that he couldn’t go out with you in public or take you to his favorite spots without gathering some rather nasty attention. Once had been enough; the scandal had rocketed through the tabloids until he’d said it was just a business transaction for his new video. Which had been true: you had starred in his music video. But the look of quiet hurt as you read all of the comments on the article had hit him hard.

“No,” he laughed quietly, pulling away and reaching for the bowl of broth and salmon. Another con: his diet. “Did you cook this?”

“Mhm. It’s pretty plain,” you began, side-eyeing him while picking at the clutter on his desk and straightening up a stack of books near the corner,”but I read your diet planner and that was really all I could come up with.”

“It’s good,” he reassured you, taking another healthy sip from his spoon. It wasn’t as strong as what he would cook, but it was the thought that counted, and he appreciated it. “I’m thinking about quitting, honestly.”

“What?” You hummed. You cracked open a book, saw it was a gift from Atsumu (his taste in literature was infamous) and shut it quickly with a frown. “Your diet?”

“Being an idol.”

You didn’t react like he had thought—there wasn’t any anger or disbelief. Instead, relief made your shoulders sag. “Oh, thank god, you’re finally getting out of that shithole. Oh, ‘Samu, you don’t know how agonizing it’s been watching you deteriorate into some carbon copy of—”

“You aren’t mad?” He blurted, wondering how you would act if it had been Atsumu who had said that—how you would act if it was Atsumu who was your boyfriend, not him.

“Are you serious?” The disbelief crept in, then, but not in the way he imagined. You rolled your eyes when he stayed quiet and cupped his face in your hands, pressing a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. “No, you silly boy, I’m not mad. I’m happy you’re considering it. You seem so miserable doing those lives and fan meets—I’m not dumb. You hate being an idol. You even told me as much. Not in so many words, but I can pick up some clues, too, you know.”

Osamu blinked up at you, almost stupidly. “So… You’re okay with—?”

“Of course I am.” You smiled then, pushing all of his hair away from his forehead with a laugh. “Who do you think I am, Atsumu?”

Almost immediately his mood soured. Atsumu. The reason he had even become an idol in the first place; what would he say? What would he think of this? He would hate him. He’d be pissed, too—

“Hey,” you chided, tapping his cheek to get his attention.  “You went and left again, ‘Samu. What are you thinking about?”

His silence told you all you needed to know.

“Alright. Here.” You snatched his phone up from the bed and unlocked it, typed a quick text, and held it out to him. “There. Done. Atsumu knows now. It isn’t his business what you do now.”

Osamu stared at the screen for a moment, then sighed and buried his face in your chest. “Thank you, [Name].”

“No problem, honey.” You ran a soothing hand down the back of his neck, ignoring the ping of a single text from Atsumu that you knew he was reading behind your back. “Come on, let’s watch Bambi while you eat. I’ve had a stroke of nostalgia lately while you’ve been busy.”

He put his phone face down on the desk, picking up his bowl and tea and toddling after you to the living room. “Alright, lead the way.”

The phone screen remained lit, reflecting a single, honest, ‘Finally’ on the wooden surface.

                                              requests: open.

[the-evil-authoress]

GX Month Day 7: “Ojama Delta Thunder!!”

That’s right! You know what today is! Today we celebrate The Chazz, the one and only Manjoume Thunder! Give sparky boi a hug!

WE STAN SUPPORTIVE WORKPLACES IN THIS HOUSE. Also, tiny bit of Egoshipping at the end.

This monster is just over nine pages. What am I doing with my life?

“So you wanted to talk Pro stuff?”

It takes Chazz’s brain an extra minute to process the words, still reeling from the bombshell Jaden decided to drop on them tonight. Then he latches onto the chance to think about literally anything other than the fact that Jaden literally fused himself with the monster that tried to kill him! How stupid do you get?! “Yes, please, I’m desperate.”

“Alright, no need to grovel.” Aster holds a hand out to preemptively stop any further begging that admittedly would have happened. “Like I said, I’d be glad for the company.”

It’s still surreal to watch Aster be both honest and vulnerable even though Chazz has seen it a few times now thanks to these group talks Jim started. Chazz has actually seen most of his friends break down in tears at this point. This year has been a fucking trip. “Okay, what’s the catch?”

“You’ll be my assistant.”

“Sorry, what?” Chazz must not have heard that right.

“You’ll have the chance to see how the Pros work up close and personal, and I get an extra pair of hands on deck.” Aster shrug. “Win-win.”

That is absolutely not a win-win! “I’m not gonna be your lackey!”

Aster levels him a look that would be insulting enough even without the younger boy’s obvious lack of fear in the face of Chazz’s anger. “So you don’t want my help then.”

Oh this son of a- Deep breath in. Hold it. Exhale. Don’t scream bloody murder at the literal one person related to the Pro Dueling business giving Chazz the time of day. “Fine. What exactly am I expected to do?”

*

“You’ll be managing Aster’s schedule,” the woman says as she escorts Chazz up the elevator because Aster couldn’t be bothered to meet Chazz himself. Esmerelda, she introduced herself as, an employee of the Senrigan Group assigned to look after Aster. Purple curls spill over her shoulder and she’d be pretty if her smile wasn’t so...unnerving. Sharp green eyes bore down at him and Chazz wants to fidget in this stupid, uncomfortable suit. “Take this.” Esmerelda holds out a simple flip phone and Chazz accepts it with minimal confusion. “It’s a company phone and will be your primary method of communication.”

This gig sounds simple enough at least.

At the top floor of the company-owned skyscraper, the doors open to reveal a spacious and luxurious pad. Reminds him of home, honestly, and Chazz has to swallow down the confusing mix of emotions that brings. “I’ll be living here? Not bad.”

“Certainly not.” Esmeralda chuckles and gives Chazz a smile that - in one word - he would describe as plastic. Leading him through the entryway-living room space, she opens a door to a room that looks like a typical office space.

“That’s a lot of phones.” He stares incredulously at the appliances that line the desks.

“Of course,” Esmerelda says and Chazz finds it more than a little unnerving that she doesn’t deem it necessary to address why there are so many phones in this room. “This is your desk.” She taps a spot on the table top with an immaculate nail. “Make sure you arrive before seven.” Chazz nods and the woman leads him back out of the room to a set of narrow double doors that open onto a balcony. “You will be sleeping there.” She points down at a comparatively tiny, rustic looking building squeezed between the back of the skyscraper and the road. Is that a warehouse?

*

It’s a warehouse. There’s a couch and table on the landing near the door and a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The power is out and a cloud of dust rises from the couch when Chazz sets his briefcase on the cushions. Sadly, this isn’t much worse than the Slifer Dorms. He’ll make it work.

*

“You put him where?” Aster looks up over his cup of chamomile tea, something Sartorius recommended after noticing his trouble sleeping and, like most of Sartorius’ suggestions, works fairly well. Setting the cup down, he presses his finger tips to his temple and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Esmerelda, you are evil.”

“With all due respect, sir, this boy is a Manjoume.” Esmerelda frowns, posture stiff where she sits on the other end of the couch and brows furrowed in an expression that speaks exactly how she feels about this situation. “The Manjoume Group is our biggest rival. He could be here to steal company secrets.”

“I highly doubt that,” Aster mumbles and picks his tea up again.

“To my knowledge, Chazz has an estranged relationship with his family,” Sartorius says from the armchair across the table, pencil tapping lightly against the clipboard on his lap. That paper is either Aster’s schedule or a crossword; Aster doesn’t care enough to squint. “Besides, he is a personal friend.”

Aster scoffs. “Chazz and I are not friends.”

“Friendly acquaintances then.”

“Acquaintances,” Aster corrects. “We’re just acquaintances.”

“Of course,” Sartorius agrees in that voice that implies he knows something he isn’t willing to share yet. Aster narrows his eyes at him over the cup but doesn’t press the issue. He’ll find out soon enough; Sartorius isn't that good at keeping secrets.

“Exactly,” Esmerelda presses. “Why are you sticking your neck out for him?”

Sighing, Aster sets his cup down to massage his temple once more. He knows Esmerelda means well, but she’s been watching him like a hawk even since he got back from the other dimension and Aster misses that small bit of freedom. “I don’t know. Maybe because I felt bad for him? Maybe because I wanted someone to talk about-” He lets the sentence hang and shelves the bulk of his bitterness and frustration before continuing; he doesn’t need to take it out on them. “-who actually understands.”

Esmerelda presses her lips. Sartorius stares at him with those damnably soulful eyes. Even if he could have predicted that whole fiasco, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to stop it. Aster doubts nothing short of the sun imploding could have stopped Jaden from chasing Jesse across dimensions; Aster had just been the idiot who got too close.

“It’s late.” Aster exhales wearily. “You should go home.”

Nodding, Esmerelda stands and bids him a good night. Only after the elevator has closed behind her does Aster allow himself to slump against the couch. Sartorius sets the clipboard on the table - it’s a crossword - and holds out his hand. “Shall we retire?”

“Yeah.”

It’s easy to be vulnerable around Sartorius, probably because of how long they’ve known each other, and Sartorius is still the only person Aster can completely relax around. He lets Sartorius pull him up off the couch and they head down the hallway to the bedrooms at the back of the suite.

“I’m in the next room if you need me,” Sartorius promises with his usual nightly greeting, and Aster has the distinct feeling he’ll be taking him up on that later. Today’s been stressful.

*

Chazz arrives at the office room at 6:55 sharp and freezes at the sight of the person already sitting there. “Good morning, Chazz,” Sartorius greets like they’re old buddies or something and not the guy who brainwashed him less than a year ago. “I trust Esmerelda already briefed you on the daily necessities.”

“No?” Chazz croaks. He’s going to be working with Sartorius? What happened to Esmerelda?

Sartorius’ expression falls into one of surprise and concern, but one of the multiple phones rings before he can respond and his attention immediately swerves. “Good morning, this is Sartorius speaking,” the man says with an uncanny level of grace and authority. Whatever is said on the other end of the line prompts him to pull up some kind of spreadsheet on the computer in front of him. Another phone rings as the conversation continues and Sartorius wordlessly directs Chazz to answer it with his hand.

“This is Weekly Duelist,” a voice chirps in his ear, a bit loud and on the edge of demanding. “Next week, could we have Aster...”

A third phone rings. Sartorius pushes a pen and paper at Chazz as he sets the first phone down and reaches for the next. “Write it down.” He’s on the next call before Chazz can ask for elaboration.

And so the morning goes. Chazz scribbles down the names of different dueling events and talk shows and gods-know-what-else that want Aster’s attention while Sartorius alternates between his own conversations and calling back the interested parties on Chazz’s list to fit them onto the spreadsheet.

Esmerelda shows up during a lull in phone calls as Sartorius walks Chazz through using the digital schedule, and Chazz’s brain is too fried from the last 2 hours of his life - has it only been 2 hours?? - to even care about the guy being in his personal space. “The first few hours of the morning are always the busiest. If you can’t confirm at the time of the call, write down the request and call back later. You must also always consider location and travel time- Oh.” Sartorius looks up abruptly. “Excuse us a moment.”

Standing, Sartorius pulls Esmerelda back out the room with him, and Chazz takes the opportunity to just sit and do nothing. A few names remain on the callback list. Should he get started on that or wait for Sartorius to return?

“You sent him in here with no instruction.” The conversation floats in from beyond the door.

“I told him to arrive before seven.”

“Before seven does not imply ‘in time to receive instruction’, Esmeralda. If you weren’t going to show him anything last night, he should have been here at least half an hour before hand.”

So that woman set him up for failure? Whatever, nothing Chazz isn’t used to. Reaching for the phone, he calls back the next event on his list. He’s got two more events scheduled before Sartorius and Esmerelda return and sits back in the chair smugly as he ends the call. Sartorius’ eyebrows rise as he glances over the schedule on his own screen.

“Well done! I’m glad to see you taking initiative.” The praise sends an odd thrill through Chazz like a half forgotten memory and he decides not to dwell on it. Sartorius turns back to Esmerelda with an almost smug grin. “And you worried.”

The woman presses her red lips together with a dismissive hum; Chazz prefers it to the plastic smile.

A tea and snack break later, Chazz finds himself fetching Aster’s clothing and duel disk - why the hell does someone need that many of the exact same thing?! - for a photo shoot, then hauling books from a truck to the table of a signing event - he didn’t know Aster wrote a book about duel philosophy. Admittedly, he’s curious - all while occasionally answering phone calls and penning new events onto his paper copy of the schedule.

The sun has set by the time he finds himself slumping back in his desk chair, Aster’s schedule neat and tidy on the spreadsheet before him. The phones have finally gone silent.

“Good work today.” Sartorius enters with a tray of soup and breadsticks and sets it on the desk adjacent to Chazz.

Chazz blinks at it. “You cook?”

Sartorius smiles. “Yes. Mizuchi and I lived alone for most of our lives, so we had to learn how to take care of ourselves.”

“Oh.” Chazz doesn’t know what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything as he reaches for the soup and spoons some of it into his mouth. It’s surprisingly good, mild, not too salty like most of the canned stuff.

“There’s an extra room up here for you,” Sartorius says and Chazz looks up sharply.

“I don’t have to stay in the warehouse?”

“Goodness, no.” Shaking his head, Sartorius presses his lips and continues at length, “I suppose Esmerelda wanted to test your resolve.” Chazz snorts. “I assure you, Aster and I did not approve.”

Didn’t stop them from letting him sleep there last night. Chazz can’t even muster the energy to glare at the man, only managing what must be a fish eyed stare. He dips the breadstick in the soup before taking a bit; oo, now that’s a good combination of flavors.

“How was your first day?” It’s still unnerving how calm and even Sartorius speaks even without the malicious undertones from the Light of Destruction.

“Exhausting,” Chazz answers without hesitation.

Sartorius chuckles. “I’ve put on some tea if you’d like to join us.”

Chazz considers this and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m gonna go get my stuff.” Still too weird, and honestly he wants nothing more than to crash in a real bed and stop existing for a few hours.

Nodding, Sartorius stands. “The room is at the far end of the hall. Mine is the second on the left if you need anything.”

Chazz really shouldn’t be surprised these two live together.

*

The following week is more of the same. Chazz follows Aster to all manner of events from meet-and-greets to fancy parties, always doing the heavy lifting and always answering the phone. During the precious few moments he has to breathe, Sartorius talks his ear off. The man is a surprisingly witty conversation partner and the complete opposite of Chazz’s sparse memories from the Society of Light.

“Of course I’m different.” Sartorius laughs good naturedly as Chazz curses his slip of the tongue. “That wasn’t really me, Chazz.”

No, Chazz supposes it wasn’t.

“He’s so good with people,” he mumbles, leaning on the balcony railing where they watch Aster mingle in the party below.

“Of course.” Sartorius sounds fond. “That’s what it takes to succeed. I believe you can learn a lot from watching him.”

Yeah, if Chazz can manage to find the time between everything else.

*

“You want me to what?”

“Organize the cards in here,” Aster repeats and Chazz baulks at the sheer number of stacks that line the shelves. “The power’s back on so that won’t be a problem. No specific deadline, just work on it when you have spare time.”

“What spare time?!”

Aster only raises his eyebrows with that unimpressed expression he’s so fond of giving, and Chazz clenches his teeth.

“Can I least get some gloves and a mask and a duster?” It’s filthy in here and Chazz doesn’t fancy breathing in whatever dust cloud he’s found to kick up.

“There should be cleaning supplies in the closet.” Aster waves a hand vaguely before turning to take his leave. “Good luck.”

*

A number of people make house calls with Aster; Chazz doesn’t pay much attention to them because he’s usually neck deep in phone calls and keeping Aster’s schedule straight - he does not need another double booking fiasco, thank god Sartorius had the charm to sort it out peacefully. One guy in particular, however, Chazz does get used to seeing; Mike something-or-other, a TV producer hell bent on getting Aster in on his comedy acts. Aster throws him out more than once.

“Why don’t you just cut ties with him?” Chazz asks after another such altercation. “You clearly don’t like him.”

“He’s good at what he does.” Aster frowns, annoyed if not outright angered. So are Slade and Jagger and that didn’t stop Chazz from telling them to fly a kite. Picking up his cup, Aster winces as his hand shakes and quickly sets the cup down before the tea can spill. Chazz zeros in on the movement.

“Hand,” he says, scooting over to sit by Aster on the couch without a second thought.

“What?”

Chazz doesn’t wait as he takes Aster’s hand and smooths out the joints between his own fingers before pressing gently and rubbing circles with his thumbs.

“You know massage??”

“Yeah.” Chazz still doesn’t get why everyone makes a big deal of it. This is something he’s always been able to do; used to find it weird that other people couldn’t because it felt so easy to him. A natural skill or whatever. “Jesus fuck,” the English expletive slips past his lips as he feels the knots and strained muscles in Aster’s hand. “I’m cancelling meet-and-greets and signing events for a while.”

“Excuse me?”

“So your hand can heal,” Chazz cuts Aster off before the other can work himself into righteous indignation. “You can’t duel without your draw hand. Two weeks of minimal activity and you should be fine. But we should tape this. Do you have a first aid-”

A white kit with a red cross hovers in the peripheral of Chazz’s vision. He stares dumbly up at Sartorius as Aster huffs with amusement. Cautiously, Chazz takes it. “Can you still see the future or something?”

“Predict,” Sartorius corrects as he takes his usual seat in the arm chair. “And not all predictions are accurate.”

“Riiiight.” Just gonna ignore that piece of information for now then. Chazz pulls the ace wrap out of the kit and turns back to Aster’s hand. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

Maybe he’s imagining it, but there might be a sliver more respect in Aster’s eyes when Chazz finishes wrapping his hand and a tiny, genuine smile on his face.

*

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening!

Aster’s going to lose his entire career just because one lousy card went missing?!

Chazz paces back and forth across the warehouse floor, gnawing on his fingernails. The cards have all been organized - monster, trap, spell, then by type, archetype, and alphabetical. Chazz could point exactly to which box a single card is in, but the one card apparently more important that Aster’s fucking career disappears from right under his nose!

They even know who took it! They have photos from the security camera! But they can’t prove shit because the bastard was smart enough to keep his face covered and away from the camera! If they can’t prove it, they can’t get the card back! And then Aster-

“Boss, breathe!” Ojama Yellow squeals. “I think you're having an angry attack!”

“Anxiety attack!” Chazz screams, suddenly aware of just how rapid and shallow his breath has gotten. Geez, he sounds like Jaden after-

JADEN!

Chazz dives for his school-issued PDA, yanks up the contacts, and rapidly taps his foot against the floor as he waits for the other end of the line to pick up. He dials twice before getting an answer.

“What?”

“Jaden, I need your help!”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” The other boy sounds groggy and disheveled.

No, Chazz has absolutely no idea what time it is in Japan, he is on the side of the globe and that’s not important right now! “Listen! I need you and your freaky powers for help with something!”

Silence. The line clicks dead.

“DID YOU JUST HANG UP ON ME?” Chazz screams into the empty warehouse. It takes three more tries to get Jaden back on the line.

“And why should I help you?”

“SERIOUSLY? Wait.” Something about Jaden’s voice sounds off. The cadence? “Yubel? This is Yubel isn’t it? Put Jaden on the line! I don’t want you!”

“Jaden is asleep as I was before you so rudely interrupted me and will be returning to now,” Yubel snips.

“WAIT!” Chazz screeches before she can hang up again. He doesn’t need to waste any more time on callbacks. “Never mind! I just need help! Aster needs help!”

The silence on the other end stretches long enough that Chazz fears the monster already hung up. “I’m listening.”

*

Chazz doesn’t even question it when Jaden tumbles out of the shadows onto the warehouse floor, grumbling about fudged landings and never being at locations before, just snaps at him to hide the wings and drags him up to Aster’s apartment. “I brought help!” he announces as they barge in.

Aster’s head snaps up and Chazz watches the scathing remark die on his tongue as his eyes fall on Jaden. “Oh. That’s an idea.”

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Jaden walks fearlessly up to the trio. “Cuz I got the basics from Yubel, but details would be nice.”

“Yubel?” Esmerelda asks with a weary glance between Jaden and Chazz.

Jaden blanks at her then turns away dismissively. “Not important.”

Aster tosses the security photos onto the table between them. “This is the guy who took the card. Mike, a TV producer who’s been trying to get me to go along with his comedy gimmick for weeks now. We know it’s him but these photos won’t hold up in court.”

Picking the photos up, Jaden holds his chin thoughtfully. “So you just need me to get this card back?”

“And maybe some proof that this guy stole it,” Chazz adds quickly, trying not to cringe as Aster’s eyes flicker over to him, but the pro silently nods his agreement.

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do.” Setting the photos back on the table, Jaden glances at the elevator, makes a face, and walks straight for the balcony. They all watch in confused silence until Jaden leaps off the balcony railing.

Esmerelda screams. “Is he insane?!”

Even Chazz charges toward the balcony, leaning over the edge in terror, only to find Jaden standing calmly on the sidewalk below like he didn’t just jump off the top floor of a fucking skyscraper!

“How?!” Esmerelda gapes, gripping the railing with white knuckles.

“I’m not even gonna question it.” Aster waves a hand as he returns indoors. Sartorius chuckles quietly, the only person who hadn’t made a mad dash after the reckless idiot.

Chazz sinks to the balcony floor, waiting for his heart to finally get the memo that they don’t need to be freaking out anymore. Gods above help them all...

*

Jaden gets the card back and manages to publicly humiliate Mike in the process. Win-win.

At the end of Chazz’s ‘employment’, Aster challenges him to an official PR duel. It’s the first time Chazz has gotten to seriously break out his deck in a while and he fears he’ll be rusty, but the plays come to him easier than they ever had. Oh, he gets it now. When he organized all the cards in the warehouse, he read each one’s effect; he thought about how to play them and combo them with each other. Aster’s deck is easy to read and Chazz pulls off a spectacular win.

Amidst the cheers, Aster holds out his hand. “Nice work. Guess you did learn a thing or two.”

Riding the adrenaline high, Chazz pulls him straight into a hug. Aster grunts, going rigid before awkwardly patting his back.

“Maybe not in front of the cameras.”

Chazz immediately backpedals. “Right! Sorry!” There’s an odd expression in Aster’s eyes as they shake hands properly this time.

*

“Sartorius. I have another problem.”

Sartorius sniggers as Aster predictably sinks into the seat next to him, flipping over the cards in his game of solitaire. “Oh, I don’t think this one is a problem,” he says with confidence, this morning’s card reading still fresh in his mind. “You should ask him out.”

It takes a second. “SARTORIUS!” Aster pushes away from the table, looking positively scandalized. “I don’t have time for a social life let alone a romantic one!”

Humming, Sartorius places a card on its designated stack. “I’m sure you can make the time. After all, you’ve been making time to visit Duel Academy quite frequently of late.”

“For my mental health!” Aster goes on the defensive, but there’s no denying the hint of flush on his cheeks. “And that's not the point! I don’t care if you read it in cards, I’m not just randomly asking him out!”

Sadly, Sartorius knows half of Aster’s reluctance to the idea is because the media would have a field day with any celebrity’s love life, let alone one with...less conventional preferences. That will not, however, prevent Sartorius from teasing his best friend. “How would you prefer to ask him out then?”

With a frustrated whine, Aster glares at Sartorius. “Not at all.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Shut up.”

[wolf-and-bard]

Dead or Destitute

- a geraskier fic (warnings for blood, mild gore, swear words)

"What the fuck?" Geralt snarled at Jaskier who had just opened the door, wearing an amiable smile and the most ridiculous robe of silver-broquaded burgundy that flared out at the sleeves and the bottom with frilly cuffs. It was buttoned closed save for the top three which fell open to reveal a glorious patch of chest hair. Jaskier's lips looked wine-stained, his hair was tousled, but when he saw Geralt the haze of light intoxication lifted into a brilliant grin. A grin that went straight into Geralt's heart. Fuck. "Geralt. Didn't expect you to come calling, how'd you know I was around?"

"I didn't." "What? Then why are you here?" "Uh..." Geralt cocked his head. Sniffed. Yes, definitely red wine, but only half a glass. Jaskier wore a new perfume too, rose scented. He was partial to almost all flower scents whereas Geralt couldn't stand them. He preferred Jaskier's natural odour. "I'm looking for the Viscount de Lettenhove? Some Duchess from Novigrad sent me because apparently he owes her a large sum of money. You know this man?" Obviously, Jaskier knew this man. If the state of his appearance was anything to go by, he had probably been thoroughly engaged with this man before Geralt had knocked. Which caused an uneasy twinge Geralt pointedly ignored. So, Jaskier was courting trouble once more, nothing new here. "Sorry, what? Sent you? Geralt, are you playing debt collector?" Jaskier asked, stepping closer. The smile was persistent, stuck to his lips as he brushed a spot of Roach hair from Geralt's chestplate. The undertone of that statement, however, was accusatory which made Geralt defensive. "It's not like I enjoy it, but I've been going through a drought and it's like the monsters are hiding or something. Needed to feed myself." "Shit, that bad?" Jaskier crossed his arms, eyes raking up and down Geralt's body to look for signs of destitution. To the outside world, Geralt knew he looked like a regular old Witcher, but Jaskier might just be able to tell the smaller signs of his dry streak. "I will manage." He always did. "So, where is this man? Viscount. Whatever." "He's standing before you." "What... you?" "Surprise? Honestly, I had always assumed that you knew." Knew that Jaskier was secretly nobility? Geralt wrecked his brain for conversational fragments he might have overlooked, information he had simply forgotten, and came up short. "I didn't." "Well, now you do. Oh, but this is fun. Say, Sir Witcher," Jaskier licked his lips and peered up at Geralt from under thick lashes, the blue of his eyes stark in the waning light of day. Geralt furrowed his brow. "Are you entirely sure that I have to pay you back in coin?" Jaskier winked and something boiled over in Geralt's chest, bubbled up from out of nowhere. Gods, this man was infuriating. "Is this what you do when you owe people? Suck their cocks to get them off your back?" Geralt didn't give two fucks how that sounded. Jaskier might not be gifted with enhanced perception, but even he could comprehend jealousy when it was so blatantly put before him. As it was, Geralt's voice was drenched in it. Jaskier let out a humorless laugh, harshly contrasting his earlier mirth, and put his hands to his hips. "That's the road you wanna take with this? Truly? I had meant it as a jest, Geralt. In case you hadn't surmised from the fact that am a travelling bard, usually I'm not here when tax lawyers and debt collectors come calling and it's not like I constantly owe anyway. Besides, I can suck on whatever cock I like to." Technically, sure. It was just that Geralt wanted it to be his and only his. He couldn't very well say that, so he went for the second-best emotion he felt in regards to Jaskier pulling out sexual favours. "I just don't want you to whore yourself out, someone could hurt you," he said and was rather proud of how earnest that came out. "I'm not, I wasn't. I was just being flirtatious," Jaskier sighed, anger deflating. "Why would you be flirtatious with me?" "Why ever? Now that is a question I will only answer when I've had at least a bottle of Lambert's home-brewed vodka." "What?" "Never you mind. Come in, I may be dead broke, but I can still offer you a cup of tea." Jaskier stepped aside to let Geralt into a square foyer/living area which had a skylight and several settees and couches scattered around it. Three doors lead away from it as well as a winding staircase that disappeared behind a velvet curtain. The middle of the room was dominated by a table with half a dozen chairs, its light surface covered in parchments and dirty dishware. Jaskier's lute case sat next to the door, his traveling wardrobe was lain out over a dark purple couch. As if he had just arrived. Or wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. "Sit, please," Jaskier said and gestured towards a back corner, the only couch without stuff on it. "Make yourself a home, I shall be right back. Chamomile, is it?" Geralt nodded absentmindedly and sat. This wasn't at all what he had expected. Neither from Jaskier nor from some Viscount. It was  a nice house, definitely excessive compared to a commoner's lodging, but it wasn't grand. It was....cosy. Jaskier returned with two mugs, plain, one chipped, and sat next to Geralt, close enough that their shoulders bumped together. "Did you wash off the perfume?" "Uh, yes. I know you don't much care for it, messes with your senses and all." Jaskier shrugged and sipped on his tea, then cursed and put it down, rubbing his lower lip. Geralt wanted to kiss it better, astounded by Jaskier's perceptiveness. Fuck. In terms of doing his job, this was going sideways. "How'd you accumulate so much debt anyway? You break an ancient relic or something?" "Ha-ha. Actually, no. This state is entirely due to my great compassion and sense of selflessness. See, I have this friend who was a gambling problem. Asked me to help out and I couldn't say no," Jaskier explained. "Are you the friend?" "No, Geralt, I'm not, but thanks for believing in me..." Jaskier mock-pouted and Geralt laughed, but quickly sobered up when he remembered how insistent his contractor had been. Either the money or the Viscount's head. Geralt would not behead Jaskier, or anyone for that matter. He had planned on a simple Axii strategy. Now... well. "You could have come to me," Geralt said softly. He emptied his tea in two drags to hide how silly he felt. Why would Jaskier have come to him? And even had he wanted to, how would he have found him? His mouth ran away with it. "We could have sorted it out, we still can." "That is very sweet of you, dear, but you literally just told me you only took this job because your short on coin yourself. Anything else, sure, yes, you will always be my first address when I'm in too deep. This is something I have to get myself out of. I could-" "No," Geralt interrupted, slamming his mug down onto the table. Tea sloshed over the rim of Jaskier's. "No. We find some contracts. Wasn't there a plague in Vizima? Sure to be loads of Ghouls and Graviers around. Besides, cities are jack-full with crowds for you to play. We could save up, there's still time." "There really isn't." "Jask," Geralt pleaded, and for what? Truth be told, there was only one simple way out of this. "The Duchess, what did she tell you to do if I couldn't pay up?" Jaskier asked, worrying his lower lip which was entirely too distracting. "Bring her your head." Jaskier gulped audibly. "Well, guess I will have to fake my own death then..." "No," Geralt said. On an impulse, he took Jaskier's hand between his own and pressed his forehead to Jaskier's knuckles. "Give me three days. If I'm not back by then, you run." "Geralt, what are you planning?" "Do you trust me?" "With all my heart," Jaskier replied without missing a beat. A dusting of pink clung to his cheeks when Geralt let go of his hand and stood. "Three days," he repeated. He promised himself to make it in half that time. Two days later saw Geralt back in Jaskier's house, exhausted from sleep deprivation and the hunt that lay behind him. He held his trophy aloft for Jaskier to see. The bard stood a few feet away from Geralt, back in his standard arrangement of doublet and shirt, all a faded, dusty violet. "Geralt, is that a head," Jaskier whispered, wide-eyed. Something clammy and cold wafted over from him, but was promptly replaced with little bursts of adrenaline that melted on Geralt's tongue when he inhaled them subtly. He grunted and dropped the head onto the table where it splattered the parchment collection and dirty silverware with blood. "Fuck me..."  Jaskier said, staring at it. The long blond curls were matted with grime, the once regal cheeks sunken in. Here was one Duchess past her zenith. "Are you not pleased?" Geralt asked and cocked his head. "This solves your problem." "It does, in a rather drastic fashion." Jaskier seemed to struggle with himself, mouthing words Geralt couldn't make out. Then, his shoulders dropped and he crossed the distance between them, put his palms flat against Geralt's chest. Tucked his face against Geralt's neck and Geralt grew very still. Careful to not give Jaskier cause to pull away. "But I thought you only killed monsters." The words came out shaky and when Geralt noticed that, he also picked up on the slightest tremor that hushed through Jaskier's body. What was going on? Had it been the wrong move after all? Geralt huffed in frustration, unable to read Jaskier after all the time they had spent together, and brought his hands up to cup the bard's shoulderblades. Jaskier shuffled closer. "Shouldn't have hired a Witcher," Geralt said. It' was a weak retort, didn't make all that much sense. The crystalline truth was that he had no ethical explanation for this, no code of conduct to refer back to. He had had more than ulterior motives for this one and, fuck, but it had been worth it. Even if Jaskier despised him for it, even if that made him the monster. He had done it to save a loved one from certain persecution, possible death. A loved one. Oh shit. "Suppose so..." Jaskier trailed off, nuzzled Geralt's neck and that was a weird feeling, created a tingle that made it hard for Geralt to swallow. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. He dared to splay his hands over Jaskier's back. "Jask?" "Yeah?" "Are you okay?" he murmured, hiding his smile in Jaskier's hair. "I'm conflicted," Jaskier admitted. "How?" "Uh... just thinking that this shouldn't turn me on as much as it does." "Oh." Jaskier peeled back a little to catch Geralt's gaze and they both burst into silly giggles. Those faded quickly, however, when Jaskier bumped his nose against Geralt's and his breath caught in his throat. Geralt tilted his head forward and dared to claim a kiss. Then two. Then a million, all at once. They broke apart for another stupid burst of laughter. Reaching behind himself, Jaskier brushed  the accumulated junk off the table, head incluced, and hopped on it, drawing Geralt between his legs. "My knight in shining armour," he sighed and kissed the corner of Geralt's mouth. "My beautiful princess," Geralt shot back. He had meant for it to come across as sarcastic, but it sounded more like a sweet declaration of surrender. "Thank you, love." "You're welcome." Geralt leaned down to kiss Jaskier properly, framing his face with both hands. They tangled up, got lost in each other, resurfaced only when Jaskier grew breathless. "Geralt?" "Hmm?" "We're still broke." Ah, fuck. Well. That was a concern for another day.

[blaydiud]

[ 𝖑𝖔𝖌 ] - 07.   𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖌𝖚𝖊.

Although it still ran rampant, oftentimes it seemed like the plague had reached a more manageable point- at least within what Faerghus considered manageable. The country had always struggled with diseases and outbreaks- its bustling capital, Fhirdiad, was nothing more than a dirty nest of rats and illness with raw filth in its streets before Cornelia was admitted as the new court mage and began aiding King Lambert in improving the city’s sanitary problems. Yet this one felt different than the ailments that disturbed the north country of Fódlan, it felt like a product of magic rather than nature’s punishment for living in filth. One much similar to the country’s last documented plague that killed its queen. 

Needless to say, the air was one of pure grief and fear. Entire families wiped, widows and orphans raising in numbers, homeless searching for shelter after theirs were destroyed, the injured and elderly on the brink of death from the shortage of available healers.

It was “manageable”, but the prince couldn’t help but feel like he failed spectacularly at his own job. Helping and aiding his people, ensuring their safety and wellbeing- no matter what he did, nothing worked. He didn’t want to kill those infected in hopes that there may be a way to save them, yet he didn’t want to leave the healthy and innocent to perish. All in all, he felt like he disappointed much more than just his friends or family- rather, he disappointed his country. He wouldn’t be surprised if his own friends and allies began to turn their backs on him after witnessing such poor performance as a ruler-to-be. Such failure from a prince and house leader.

He wanted to be left alone for a bit. It wasn’t the best action, he was well aware- being alone with nothing but his own thoughts was an invitation to unwelcome ideas and voices, but at the same time he felt too ashamed to face others. Icy eyes that usually scouted the area from above were now directed to the found, instead. The blue cape that often blazed brightly under the sunlight was droopy and hidden in the shadows, close to the walls. The confident and mildly fast pace of his boots were now quiet and slow.

The blond hair that was compared to the sun’s mighty rays was obscured by clouds, his posture akin to a withering flower.

Fate had it out for him however, when one of the monastery’s messengers approached. Someone came to visit.

At first Dimitri frowned in confusion, after all who would want to visit him like that? Perhaps Rodrigue, to check in on him? Margrave Gautier? But the plague hadn’t reached the north. Count Galatea? Maybe to report losses and request aid. Maybe Cornelia, to give a detailed report of the disease and discuss what could be done to avoid this type of thing from happening in the future. Of course, all diplomatic matters- although usually directed to the Regent King rather than to him.

What he wasn’t expecting however, was to be sitting inside his room, a tray with boiling hot chamomile tea on the wooden table, two cups, right in front of his uncle- who eyed the room with an arched brow.

He hadn’t seen any signs in the monastery that would suggest the arrival of his uncle. No trumpets, no kingdom soldiers roaming the area, not even the flying units that always accompanied the royal carriages. It was quiet and simple, almost as if his uncle himself didn’t want it to be known that he was here. Maybe that was done on purpose- Rufus was unpredictable as ever. Sometimes he wanted to be received with parties and glamour, other times he’d much rather sneak around the halls like a weasel. He ever chose to meet Dimitri in the prince’s own quarters, rather than reserve a proper meeting room.

“Not bad. Nice non-existent decoration, by the way. Heheh.” A joke that didn’t land, received with silence. Dimitri’s gaze never really met his uncle’s eyes, instead focusing on his cravat, his beard, the teacups or his own hands sitting atop his lap, fiddling nervously with the hem of his jacket.

Dimitri wasn’t sure what to expect from this- it was the first time Rufus had visited him in the monastery ever since the prince left Faerghus for his studies. Did the man come here to scold him? Lecture him? Just hang out?  It was hard to tell. Shouldn’t Rufus be at Fhirdiad, acting on his duties and helping to make sure the city was still safe? The prince’s memories went to the response letter Rufus sent after the Church’s complaints about Dimitri’s behaviour in the ball- and the Regent King actively supported his nephew. But now, looking at the older man’s face, Dimitri wasn’t so sure if he came here to support and comfort him...or to yell at him for his incompetence. Or both, or neither.

Another moment of silence, nothing but their quiet breaths and idle noise from outside the room to fill up the void. Old blues lines the details on the room’s stone and wood walls, before stopping at the sight of Dimitri’s form.

“So? How are you holding up?” Rufus tried to strike conversation again, still not touching the steaming cup of tea, nor the sweet buns on a nearby plate. They were all brought from the Kingdom, all things done exactly the way Dimitri would like. The chamomile tea from the palace’s storehouse- the same kind that Lambert would drink in his afternoons, the buns prepared by the royal bakery- with marshmallow fillings, chewy and soft. Their smell was familiar enough for the prince’s own poor nose to catch on their scents, the smell of nostalgia dulled but present.

The intention behind these was still gray to the prince, however.. He reached out for his teacup, gauntlets long discarded, sitting atop his bed. “I feel well.”

The regent’s expression was neutral, unconvinced. With slow blinks, one would think he’s much older than his early fifties. His long blond mane was clearly messier than usual, some white hairs poking out. The blue of his eyes was lined by dark circles, his posture looked both at ease and crumbling down. Stress, perhaps. Exhaustion, unhappiness. Things that seemed alien for the king that would throw feasts and extravagant parties nearly every month- at least from others’ point of view. The Rufus people saw occupying the throne, the Rufus people used to suspect had a hand in the late king’s murder, the Rufus called sleazy and useless.

Dimitri’s silly, rebel uncle and his only family. Two completely different people.

    “I…” The prince started again, unsure. “...I feel like I did a poor job.” 

“Poor job at what?” The older man’s brows furrowed slightly, confused. “Got bad grades?”

    “No, my grades are fine.” At least for now, they looked good enough. “I performed poorly in aiding the people in the Kingdom. So much was happening, there was so much to be done and I could not-”

“You’re not a mage, boy. Not a healer, either.” And you’re not king yet. “There was nothing for you to do there.” Rufus’ words were quick and sharp, spoken seemingly without a care. 

As if they didn’t hurt at all, a simple fact. Dimitri deflated, visibly. Noticing that his words were perhaps too harsh, Rufus scratched his bearded cheek, suddenly uncomfortable. “You- train to be a knight, don’t you? So. Unless you walked out there to kill those diseased people, then there wasn’t anything you could do. Maybe stand there and grant the people comfort, but just that.” The more the regent king tried to do damage control, the more salt was added to the prince’s wounds.

Rufus frowned, huffing. Uncle was always horrible at this, Dimitri thought. After a pause that seemed infinite, the older man tried to speak once more.

“What I mean is that-...ugh, sorry boy but there’s no other way to put it. I’d much rather have you doing nothing and being healthy than you running around the diseased and ending up like one too.” Typical of the older Blaiddyd. Dance around the issue in hopes of sugarcoating or changing the subject, only to drop a bucket of cold water- of truth, unceremoniously like that. Dimitri, unamused, finally met Rufus’ own.

    “You want me to just stand aside and watch them fall one by one? You want me to watch them die and do nothing about it? What kind of ruler does that to his people?” Icy eyes grew a flame of their own.

“That’s not it at all- listen to my words, Dimitri. It is dangerous out there, even now. As much as I hate this damned building it’ll be better for literally everyone if you stay here.” Both voices were quickly rising in volume- once a quiet and controlled argument, now a potential shouting match. 

The prince’s hands were flat against the table, as if he were close to abruptly standing up- to prove a point. Or to just leave the room and be by himself, even though he knew well that Rufus would follow. “I will not sit on my hands and watch the people of Faerghus sink in a sea of torment! Even if I cannot perform healing spells, I wish to at the very least be there for them! So that they know they have someone to rely on!” 

“You’ll die out there if you do that! Leave that task to me-”

    “-You’re doing nothing about it! Nothing!” 

Although slightly taken aback by the shout, it was unclear if the prince’s words hurt Rufus. “Dimitri, think. I’m not telling you to sit and eat imported steak from Almyra next to a dying villager, what I’m saying is that there’s no use for you to roam around in a situation that’s unsafe and that you cannot directly interfere in! Lances and swords can only do so much, you know that better than me!” Rufus’ voice wasn’t a shout of anger, but rather a steady- and loud, command. He was defining an ultimatum for Dimitri to back down and obey. “It’s unfortunate that you had no means or ways to have a say in what happened but there’s no use in moping about it all day.”

The prince seemed to be stuck between curling in on himself and glaring back at his uncle with defiance. 

Rufus glared back with a similar fire in his eyes. “Don’t make that face at me.” The regent leaned in the chair, sighing. He finally reached for the tea- still warm, but not as much as before. Dimitri was still silent, immobile in the opposing chair. His emotions were a swirl of anger, grief, outrage and sadness- he felt justified in his points, yet felt that his outburst was horribly childish. Also unfit for a prince, as well as for someone his age.

Old, greyed azures roamed the room once more before focusing on one of the lances leaning against the wall. The lance Dimitri took with him when he left for Garreg Mach, a steel so smooth and clear that the lance was almost white in color with a charming blue decorating its hilt and the middle of its blade.

His vision wasn’t great as it used to be, but he could make out stains around its blade. Blood was a stubborn little thing, sometimes. The hilt was straight and seemed intact, save for subtle indents from what could only be Dimitri’s hands grasping it. Rufus had always supported having the prince learn how to fight, but he couldn’t help but get a grim feeling from seeing the weapon. From knowing that Dimitri was training to kill. It was all expected, but never easy to swallow. 

“Fhirdiad was a little nightmare. No disease, but the people were scared. Panicking.” The regent started casually, slightly tired. He took a sip of the tea, then finally grabbed one of the buns and took a bite. 

    “Did you do something about it, at least? Did you talk to them?” With words sharper than a knife, Dimitri reached out for his own teacup but stopped midway. Depending on Rufus’ answer, the cup could shatter in his hold- which would be quite unfortunate.

“Me? Dimitri, they hate me. If I stepped out of that balcony to say a ‘good morning’ Goddess knows what they’d throw at me in rage.” The older man stated with similar, ominous indifference. It filled the prince with a dull anger, but not enough to justify another fit.

Always avoiding anything that could prove to be inconvenient to you, uncle. The prince wanted to find it disgusting, outrageous, but his heart didn’t allow it. This was family.

Dimitri decided to fully reach for his cup, despite unfavorable feelings brewing in his chest. “I could have gone to Fhirdiad and offered moral support to its citizens, in that case. The lack of my presence is unforgivable. I will be perceived as unreliable-” 

Rufus’ hand came down on the chair’s wooden handle, not hard enough to shatter it but enough for the furniture to audibly creak. “The roads to Fhirdiad were crawling with the diseased! Our pegasus and wyvern knights were tasked with transporting medical equipment and food, and the mages skilled enough to cast a Warp spell were too busy trying to find a cure! Even that pink haired witch was too busy! There was no safe way for you to return, Dimitri!” The regent’s gaze was piercing, making full contact with Dimitri’s icy blues- which still burned in defiance, but the flame was weak. “Can’t you see that as much as the people need their ruler, no level headed person in Faerghus wants another royal funeral? You doing nothing and staying alive- nobody will hold this against you, dammit! Nobody here wants you dead!”

Rufus ran his hands through his hair, an ashy golden mane naturally messy that went past his shoulders. “Me included. So stop having those stupid ideas already.” The outburst from before was reduced to a meek, shaky mumble. With his face obscured from view, it was hard to make out his gaze- if it was one of anger, of exhaustion, or one of tears.

It tore a shuddered breath out of the prince. “...my apologies.” If this answer was genuine or performative, it was unclear. “But I...have to disagree with you.”

The regent simply shook his head and leaned back on the chair again, frowning at how one of the wooden handles was now slightly crooked from his fit. It seemed like another moment of silence, except Rufus knew that any time now Dimitri would say something. From the trembling of his lips and how his gaze zipped around aimlessly. Working up the courage to speak, rehearsing words in his brain.

It came out with an audible sob and a wobbly voice that the regent was most definitely not expecting.

    “I just don’t want to be like this…” Helpless, useless. “To stand there...with nothing to do- while people-” Die around me. “I-”

    “I don’t want it again.” The sentence was slightly mangled. “To have no control on the- the situation and-”

“Dimitri.”

    “People keep dying around me and I can’t do anything about it!”

“Dimitri-”

    “I’m ne- ever enough to make it stop! It's unfair! Unfair that I get to breathe all day doing nothing and they-”

“Silence!” The prince yielded, but his sorrow blazed on.

“...Sometimes it happens. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Call it fate or the Goddess throwing a fit or whatever, but there’s...there are things we can’t stop.” At first unsure, Rufus reached for the prince’s forearm, rubbing it gently.

“Being royalty, having a crest- none of these things matter sometimes. You’re just a person. And some things are just out of your power for...being a person like any other. Doesn’t make you weak, but...well, it happens. You’re helpless as I am.”

Dimitri replied with silence.

“And if any of your friends give you crap for it, then guess what? They’re not friends.” Rufus still didn’t know who Dimitri was friends with- except from the ones he’d spot on the palace sometimes. The youngest boy from Duke Fraldarius, the one from Margrave Gautier, and one of Count Galatea’s little girls. They seemed like good kids, at least. “And if that happens then- whatever! I’m here! It’s not much but I’m here!”

What could only be interpreted as a meek chuckle was all Dimitri reacted with. A funny thing for Rufus to say, considering how sometimes he didn’t bother to read his letters and never came to visit. He was too tired to confront the man about it however- so he let it pass. Rufus would probably forget about it later, anyway.

“Also can you- ugh, wait.” The regent produced a handkerchief and handed it out. “I know it’s rough and you’re sad but wipe your face? It’s three quarters water at this point. Gross as hell.” The Blaiddyds never looked pretty while crying. Always a red-faced wet mess, yet the redness and the tears made the blue of their eyes jump out exponentially. 

    “Language, uncle.” Dimitri grabbed the offered handkerchief- it held the emblem of Itha, not of the Royal banner- and pressed it against his face. He didn’t care, blew his nose on it despite an audible sound of disgust from the regent and handed it back.

“...you can keep it.” Rufus’ grimace was enough to finally make the prince laugh softly. A real laugh.

Dimitri sighed, feeling a headache coming in- one of exhaustion, the typical ones after a cry. Instead of looking down, however, he stared at the now cold cup of tea and the mostly untouched buns. “I just do not wish for my people, allies and friends to perceive me as… weak and unreliable. That is all.” I don’t want to be abandoned again.

The older man chuckled. “It’s funny to hear you speaking all fancy after all of that.” Dimitri simply huffed.

“Prince or not, you’re still a kid. Kids aren’t perfect, I bet that princess from Adrestia also has her slip ups as well as the little guy from Leicester you threw hands with. If people cast you aside for a mistake out of your power, then they’re the ones in the wrong for putting on impossible expectations.” Dimitri noddled idly, although he didn’t seem to be fully on board. Stubborn little thing, just like his dad, Rufus thought.

    “...I wish to support Faerghus still, however. Even if I could not do much when the disease was out of control...now that everything has reached a more stable point, I would like to help the people in every way I can.”

“And that’s alright. Just don’t skip school and be a good boy.”

     “Uncle.”

“What? You can’t be in two places at the same time, Mitya.” That baby nickname was enough to calm the prince down slightly. It was only ever used by his family nowadays- as his friends have all but stopped calling him anything other than Your Highness. It felt a bit embarrassing at times, as if Rufus were babying him, but it also brought comfort.

     “I- okay, I yield!” The prince crossed his arms, huffing out. “You are impossible, truly. Quite frustrating, at times.”

“Yadda yadda.” Rufus smirked, sipping on the now cold tea. ”Sheesh, this thing tastes like leaf water when it’s cold. Bad leaf water.”

     “That is more or less what tea is composed of.” Dimitri grabbed one of the sweet buns, taking a bit and munching with visible glee once he noticed that the pastries were bakes to fit his preferences.

“Finally, dammit! I thought you wouldn’t eat any of these! Well, you could at least spare one to give to a pretty girl you like.” Rufus winked and grabbed another pastry, powdered sugar lining his golden beard.

Dimitri made noises of disapproval, but preferred to just continue eating. Although his heart was still heavy with uncertainty and disappointment in himself, he felt that at least at that very moment, he could afford to occupy himself with something- or someone else. Other than death and suffering, other than despair. 

He’d brace himself for a difficult path, now. One of painful recovery and unfortunate difficulties.

[captainjimothycarter]

For the prompt + trope ask, prompt #5 with royal au for thundershield? Pls?

I have waited far too long and can’t find the prompt you were talking about but let’s just go with royal au?  I think it was “I just needed a change of scenery.”

Please be kind, I rarely write thunder shield. This may not be what you wanted and I am so sorry?? It just came out.

--

The bed was moving. Rocking side to side in a gentle motion that could almost card the young prince back into a well-deserved slumber.

He almost did too, until the memories of the last few days struck him and Steve found himself quickly sitting up. His body screamed in pain, tense muscles moving faster than he should. A wound that had been stitched together tugged and he stilled, not wanting to rip a stitch. His eyes fell to the room - a simple boarding room inside of an elegant boat.

He’d know that symbol carved into the supporting pole anywhere.

Odinson

Groaning, Steve pulled himself to his feet, shoving his feet inside of a pair of worn boots. He got three steps away before it hit him that these were not his clothes. These were elegant, well made, cared for, and stitched with love. They were comfortable and not the clothes he had last remember wearing that were rags by now. 

Looking down at the tights, Steve heaved a soft sigh and shook his head. He needed to get to the bottom of this and stat. 

The rocking made sense as he climbed the stairwell, fingers tracing over hand-carved designs in the walls. He recognized a few designs, a few done by magic, and traced over with a knife to give it that rustic look. It told the story of how the kingdom of Asgard came to be and how they defeated the violent tyranny known as the ice giants and laid claim to the throne. 

A story told to kids to lull them to sleep at night, covered in a blanket of their lies.

The deck was empty of people, no staff, no one manning the boat. He was greeted with great, white sails, the wind pushing them closer to their new destination. An inky black sky welcomed Steve, the smell of the salt in the sea opening his lungs up more than they had been in the slum of the city. For the first time, he felt like he could breathe, that he had some sense of relief.

He leaned into the side of the boat with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes to just enjoy the rocking. How long had he been out? More than a day, he had to guess. His body was sore and aching from that amount of rest. They had to be miles away from home by now. He didn’t even get to say goodbye…

Before the anguishing thought laid on him, Steve jumped when he felt a warm hand lay on his shoulders. His heart lurched into his throat and he turned around to see Thor, the prince, and heir to the throne of Asgard standing above him.

Thor was everything his father wanted him to be - a foot taller than Steve’s 5’4 height, a mass of bulging muscles from spending days in the field, and slaying monsters for sport. His hair was swept from his face and braided back, charms hanging from the few braids that hung around his face. He’d neglected to shave as of recent, stubble growing in around his flushed cheeks. Despite the power this prince held, how he could easily slay Steve by just breathing on him, there was a kindness in his eyes. A softness that had first betrayed Steve and made him fall for the prince. 

And for once, the prince was without his battle adorned armor and his family weapon - a thick hammer that he had named Mjolnir. 

His head tilted to the side as he watched Steve, concern growing in his flushed face at the way Steve started to panic for his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, frowning slightly. “I thought you had heard me coming. I didn’t mean to scare you. Here, my mother made this for you.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small jar with a cork lid on it. He pulled the lid off and held it to Steve’s face, letting him breathe in the intense fumes. The smaller blonde choked on the sweet smell of lavender and chamomile, but his panic slowly subsided, his breathing returning to normal.

“Remind me to thank her,” he muttered, watching Thor pack the jar back into his pocket. “Where are we? What in the hell happened?”

It was a question Thor wanted to avoid, his brow pinching as the events of the last few days played over in his head. “I made the necessary decision to save you. You were now safe within Asgard’s walls, so I am taking you elsewhere.”

He wrapped Steve in one arm, leading him away from the ledge to walk slowly around the ship. His eyes lit up at the man controlling the ship - a taller brunette with silver eyes, pointed ears, and a metallic left arm. He made a sound as he ripped from Thor’s arm to throw himself at his best friend, knocking them both to the floor in the process.

Thor’s echoing laugh bounced around them, reminding him of thunder rumbling in the sky. “I see that you have met our new navigator. He was determined not to leave your side, a promise he had made to your mother before she had passed. Promises are dear and sacred to my culture, Steven. I didn’t want to break that bond.”

Steve sat up from Bucky’s arms, trying to pretend he wasn’t crying. “I thought-I thought you...I...left! Odin had said…” He stopped at the anger that flashed across Bucky’s face, following the man’s eyes as Thor shook his head from where he controlled the wheel. 

“Odin doesn’t matter,” Bucky purred, cupping Steve’s face. “You heard your prince - promises matter. Odin won’t stop me from following you. Besides, someone has to stop you from doing something stupid - like attempting to attack a king.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed a shade of pink, the memory slowly ebbing back into his vision. He had attacked Odin with nothing but a simple dagger. But why? Odin controlled the very Kingdom he laid in, even opposing the king meant a death sentence. How was he still alive?

“Father had it coming,” Thor mused in a distraction, pulling Steve and then Bucky up. “Your friend, Friend Bucky, your boyfriend awaits for you in your chambers. The boat can man itself with Loki’s spell still on it, so you may rest. Steven?” 

Steve looped his arm around Thor’s when offered, giving one last confused look to Bucky before he was lead down a set of stairs. He was taken to an empty kitchen, being sat at a sturdy table while Thor went about heating broth and toasting a roll.

“The doctor says you must start light with your meals if you are to get an appetite back. I apologize but the drug my mother was forced to use had knocked you out for a few days now, just to allow your body to heal. You might find yourself struggling for a few days, but he assures me that you will be fine as long as you rest and eat.”

Setting the bowl in front of Steve, he walked around with his goblet and set it between them. One tap of the stem and Steve knew inside was the sweetest glass of boysenberry juice that any soul could want. The magic Thor possessed, however, limited compared to his little brother, still astounded him.

“Thor…” Steve sighed after a few mouthfuls, not wanting to press his luck with his appetite. “What happened? I need to know the full story. Where are we going? Why am I not dead?”

Thor sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He took the goblet himself and drank a few sips, making a face at how sweet the content was. “Tis not easy, Steven. You might’ve as your friend says - made a stupid decision but a necessary one. You tried to kill my father.”

He raised his hand to stop Steve’s initial panic, pointing to the bowl. “You eat, I talk.”

“You were not raised a prince, as I was. You were stuck in the far lands, in a small fishing village, correct? But you are a prince. You are the prince that Heimdall has prophecies that I will marry. He has said that I should marry you, a nameless blonde prince at the time, and learn to become a better man, to rule over my people with grace and a firm hand, to be better than my father. You were hidden from me on purpose, my father’s doing. If it wasn’t for Loki, I wouldn’t have found you. And he only found you by mistake when one of your drawings had reached our lands by your friend Barnes.”

“Bucky...joined the military - only way he could be useful, he said.”

“Yes, he attempted to. I’m afraid he didn’t get very far in the processes thanks to my doing. I pulled him from the very school he was attending to track you down with Loki. I should’ve known that we were being followed. When I found you...you were dying. Your wounds had bested you, your health. Loki did all he could with my mother’s knowledge passed onto him. It was touch and go for a while. I stayed by your side. I did things I had never done before, I cleaned your home, I talked to your neighbors and learned about you, about Bucky, I learned to fish and garden, and to assist in your small farm. I learned what it was like to be...not me. Things my father had insisted were below me to learn because my path was royalty and not something a mere farmer should do.

When you started to recover, my father visited. He brought with him trusted soldiers, friends of mine. He attacked you, claimed you were enemy to the kingdom, conspiring with me and Loki to turn against him. You were not in your right mind. You were still delirious with a fever. We tried to argue for your sake, to prove to father that he was wrong. In truth, he is upset that you were found, that the prophecy is becoming true. 

When he went after Bucky, after Bucky’s little sister, you attacked. You are not but ninety pounds and yet you attacked a man who has more power than he knows what to do with. When you touched Odin, you were knocked back by the magic he possesses in that staff. It nearly killed you, fried you from the inside out is what Loki had said. You are correct you say that you should be dead, Steven, but you are not.

Loki and I escaped with you and Bucky. It was only through my friend’s help in keeping Odin distracted and one getting a message back to my mother, Frigga that you were saved. They had lead Odin in the opposite direction, allowing us to return to the castle. Frigga helped you with her best knowledge, putting you to sleep with ancient words. She had planned for this day and had prepared us a ship and crew. She had planned to meet you too, under better circumstances, but this is the best that we can do. She helped us escape in the dead of night. My father lives, but he is now claiming that his only children are enemies and will be killed.”

The air was heavy around them. Steve’s mouth had hung open, every last memory rushing back to him. He had attacked Odin with a simple dagger, it was almost funny compared to how large the man was. He could remember the pain, the muscles in him seizing up, the blinding, white-hot pain that made him wish for death above all else.

He could remember Thor during the time before it, taking care of him, nursing him back to health. Smelling of the rich soil and bringing home Miss Juniper’s fresh-made rolls. He can remember Frigga - the floral, sweet-smelling woman with a kind face and eyes who had risked her life to care for her son’s prince, someone she did not know. Someone she trusted. 

And this boat...being on it for days, while asleep and recovering, despite it, he still felt exhausted with the story in his head. Thor and Loki had risked it all for him - little, old him who has yet to recover from the knowledge that he was a prince and not a simple farmer. 

Silently, Thor rose him from the bench and lead him back to their chambers. He tucked Steve into bed and slid on top of the covers beside him. Thor had crowded him, yes, but it was in a manner that didn’t seem so forceful like he was smothering him. He welcomed his presence and the warmth he brought with him.

“That...I…” Steve sighed as he rolled to his side and looked up at Thor. He was overcome with such emotions from grief to being thankful, to just utter terror of having done something so stupid. He had attacked Odin and for what? Because he was to die anyway so he might as well prove a point. 

“It’s okay,” Thor rumbled in response, dipping his head down to brush his warm lips over the downy soft blonde locks. “You do not need to speak. You have been through something traumatic.”

“No. I...I...thank you.” Steve didn’t know what possessed him to throw himself at Thor, to press his face into his chest, but he was glad he did. The man smelled like the sea, like tanning leather that warmed his body from the inside out. He could feel the man rumble as he purred. 

Feeling the surprisingly smooth hands on his cheek, he looked up to see the prince’s smiling face above his. His lips gently pressed against his and a shock ran through Steve. Every nerve in his body lit up, thrumming to life. He felt alive in a sense he has never felt before.

Exhausted, but alive.

“You deserve a chance at life and not to be burdened by my father and his mistakes.” Leaning up on one arm, Thor sighed and closed his eyes. Exhaustion seemed to melt from his features with Steve so close.

Steve watched him breathe, counting the number of breaths he took. His chest expanding the straining shirt. “You haven’t explained where we are going? We can’t outrun Odin forever and far as I understand, any other kingdom close enough to us is no alley of yours.”

“Hm, that is a good point, but…” The man groaned as he flopped back onto one arm to look down at the scrawny prince with an amount of pride that made Steve start to feel uncomfortable. “We are not heading towards another Kingdom. Legend has spoken of Asgard. Not the kingdom in itself, but a whole new world in the sky. We are to find it.”

Steve’s mouth hung open, perhaps to dismiss this fairy tale. He’s heard about this Asgard in the sky but didn’t believe it. Only children believed such lies. Yet, Thor sounded so sure that he could just nod his head in agreement. 

Silence hung between them, only broken by the crew slowly waking up and causing the ceiling above them to creak. The sound of the water lapping over the side of the boat. Steve rested on Thor’s chest, despite the exhaustion seeping into him, he couldn’t rest. He had questions, but only one remained heavy on his mind.

Thor purred, rumbling in his chest as his hand rubbed up and down the smaller blonde’s back. “Speak, little one. You won’t offend me with your question.”

Steve snorted, giving a roll of his eyes. “I’m not worried about offending you. I just…” He sat up for this, regretting the action because it made him dizzy. “Do you regret it? Any of this? Going against your father? Putting you and Loki in danger?”

A smile pulled on Thor’s lips, lighting up his face. His eyes shined with life in them, lightening reflecting in his vision. “My dear Steven, I regret nothing when it comes to you. Besides, I was overdue for a change of scenery.”

[whitecatindisguise]

The Sundrop Alchemist (5)

Another chapter full of fluff and fun. Varian is a cinnamon roll when he’s excited. UwU

Also, an important info: In this story Varian and Hugo will not be romantically attracted to one another. I intend to leave their relationship on brothers level.

Summary: Varian steps out of the tower for the very first time in his life. Just what kind of wonders the outside world hides?

AO3 link is here

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Hugo jumped down the last several inches and landed safely on the ground. He sighed tiredly and looked up towards the tower’s window. 

“You coming, Sweetcheeks?” He called, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

A cascade of hair fell down and it was only by quick reflexes he managed to dodge being squished under it.

That would be an interesting death. Burrowed under hair., he thought, furrowing his brows. 

“Watch where you’re dropping your hair!” He called angrily, only to be answered by a laughter.

“Sorry, thought you have moved already.” Varian called back and Hugo was sure the younger was just making fun of him. 

The long-haired boy stood at the windowsill, Ruddiger draped around his neck and a lock of his hair in his hand. He looked down and took a deep breath.

“Here we go, buddy.” He said before taking a step forward and plummeting right down. He could feel the wind rushing around him, as he neared the ground, an involuntary laugh escaping his throat. 

Hugo stared in shock as the boy fell, becoming bigger and bigger by the second, not slowing down. He’s going to splash himself dead if he doesn’t stop on time!

Suddenly, Varian came to an abrupt stop, as he pulled harder on his hair, stopping mere inches from the ground. Slowly, the boy lowered himself, his feet touching the grass. 

“Woah…” The blue eyes widened in surprise. He kneeled down, Ruddiger jumping off his shoulders and running in circles, chittering happily. 

With a harder tug, the long hair unhooked from the wheel and cascaded to the ground, spreading all over the boy. He slowly took off one of his gloves and touched the grass, his face filled with wonder and excitement. 

Hugo snorted at the younger teen’s expression.

“Chill out, it’s just grass.” He commented but it fell on deaf ears. 

“It’s so… spiky. But soft at the same time.” Varian said in amazement, eyes sparkling. Hugo cocked his head in puzzlement. 

“You’ve never touched the grass? Are you serious?” He asked confused. 

“No. It’s my first time leaving the tower, actually.” The boy replied, pulling the glove back and standing up. His face turned into a toothy grin, revealing bunny teeth. “This is amazing!” 

“Wait… you’re kidding, right?” Hugo stared at the boy as he ran up to the tree, taking off his glove again and touching the bark, eyes glistening once again. 

“Mother always told me it’s too dangerous for me to go outside.” Came the answer and the bespectacled boy blinked. What…?

“Ooooh! This is going to be amazing!” Varian was running his hand over the rocks now, the excited expression not once leaving his face. Ruddiger chittered at him and pointed his head at the curtain of ivy, covering the entrance to the tunnel. 

Hugo trailed behind the boy and his raccoon, observing in bewilderment as he plucked flowers, brushed his hands through the bushes and even took off his shoes to paddle through a nearby stream. It all felt surreal. The kid was almost his age. How could he spend all this time in a tower without going out even once?

“Ruddiger, look! It’s chamomile!” Varian pointed at the flowers growing nearby and running up to it. 

He reached for his satchel and fished out a pair of goggles. He unlocked the clip and secured them at the top of his head, closing the clip again. Then, he pulled the goggles over his eyes and plucked one flower, taking it closer to his face. 

“Um… what are you doing?” Hugo came closer, blinking in surprise. 

“I’m observing it, obviously. Did you know that chamomile possesses anti-inflammatory properties, can be used for disinfection and to relieve the pain?” Varian asked, before putting his goggles up and reaching to collect more flowers, putting them into his satchel. “It is mainly used for the treatment of urinary and ocular infections, skin rash, toothache, respiratory pain, premenstrual pain, migraine, insomnia, anxiety-” 

“Okay, I get it. It’s good.” Hugo cut him off. “How did you get all that out at one breath?”

“It’s also good for tea. They say homemade chamomile tea can be used for lightening blonde hair.” He added with a grin. “Maybe you could use some of it. Yours are rather pale.” 

Hugo sputtered something incoherent, his face reddening either from embarrassment or anger. He grabbed the younger boy by the arm and pulling him up.

“Okay, no time for plucking flowers. Let’s just go and get this over it!” He said, dragging the blue-eyed boy away from the patch. 

“Fine…” Varian reluctantly agreed and put the flowers he still held into his satchel. 

Suddenly, they heard a growling. They both stopped abruptly, puzzled.

“What was that?” Hugo spoke up first. The sound repeated and he stared at Varian, who was looking away, red painting his cheeks. He chuckled awkwardly. 

“I… I guess I didn’t have time to eat anything before we left…?” He said, rubbing his arm in embarrassment. 

“Oh no! That’s no good! No good at all!” Hugo looked at the younger boy, his eyes filled with pretend worry. “We have to take you back before you faint of hunger!” He started to push him back towards the grove. “One can’t underestimate the power of food. Yup, gotta get you back. Guess we won’t see the lanterns after all.”

“Wait, what?” Varian suddenly dug his heels in the ground, stopping mid-move. He turned abruptly and looked at Hugo accusingly. “No, no way! We’re not going back. I won’t wait another year to see the lanterns!”

“But we have to think about your health, Goggles.” Hugo countered, trying to sound worried. 

“I am sure I can find something edible on the way.” Varian replied, already moving back the way they were going. “Like berries, or some roots, or-”

He stopped mid-sentence as the bush suddenly started to shake. He immediately reached for the frying pan which was hanging from his belt, pointing it at the bush.

“What is it? Thugs? Ruffians? People with pointy teeth?” He asked, slowly hiding behind Hugo. 

The bush shook some more and out came… a rabbit. Varian blinked in puzzlement.

“Be careful, it can probably smell fear.” Hugo leaned over and whispered to the boy’s ear with a smirk. 

SMACK

“Ouch! What was that for?!” Hugo massaged his head as he looked over at the younger boy. 

Varian stared at the bespectacled teen with anger, frying pan raised after the strike. Ruddiger jumped down from the boy’s shoulders and ran after the rabbit, both animals disappearing behind the bushes. 

“Gah! Ruddiger! Come back here!” He called, losing interest in Hugo and running after the raccoon. 

Hugo stared at the bushes for a moment, thinking. He could just go back to the tower and search for his satchel. No way he was spending more time with the crazy kid and his more crazy raccoon than he needs to. He looked back to where the ivy curtain covers the entrance to the tunnel and then at the bushes. With a heavy sigh he pushed the bushes away and followed the two runaways. 

“Hey, Blondie!” He called, eyes scanning the surrounding. Seriously, the kid has seventy-feet-long blonde hair. How hard should it be to find him. “Come on, we don’t have the whole day to- WOAH!” 

Hugo recoiled and fell to his butt as suddenly the kid (what was his name again?) dangled upside-down from one of the trees. He was using his hair as a rope to make sure he won’t fall off, the raccoon sitting on a nearby branch and munching on some fruit it had found. 

“What are you doing on a tree?” The bespectacled teen asked bewildered, pushing his glasses further on his nose and standing up.

“Oh, I noticed this tree has leaves I’ve never seen before, so I wanted to collect some samples to compare with my books back at the tower.” Varian simply replied, pulling himself up and then jumping back to the ground. Ruddiger scurried down the tree and climbed the boy’s shoulders. “Sorry, it’s just… everything is new here.” He smiled sheepishly. 

“Riiiight…” Hugo replied and took a deep breath. “Anyway, if we want to get to Old Corona on time, we’d have to refrain from any unnecessary stops.” He said as he started walking, Varian following him.

“Old Corona?” The boy questioned with a puzzled expression.

“The village that sends the alchemical lanterns.” Hugo explained and the boy’s mouth turned into an ‘oh’. 

Varian’s stomach growled again, the boy turning red. Suddenly, Hugo was struck with an idea. He grinned and turned to the boy. 

“Hey, I know a place you can get something to eat.” He said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s a nice place, not so far away from here.”

“That… that would actually be nice.” Varian nodded and smiled happily. “Lead the way, then.”

“With pleasure.” Hugo grinned back.

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Hugo smack count: 7

[rayewriting]

Being Enough

Fandom: Batman

Note: This fic is ignoring the crappy “Ric Grayson” plot line and Damian’s Teen Titans disaster. I did not like those ridiculous character developments at all so I’m blatantly throwing those out the window. So, Dick did die, was sent to Spyral, before going back to Bludhaven to see how his dumpster fire is holding out. Damian was resurrected, and has met Jon, Maya, and Suren (because they are my babies) but does not have a TT team. Damian is fifteen and Dick is twenty-*mumble mumble* in the first scene. I also tried to write it as if Damian was writing it from third person and I don't how it turned out so... yeah.

Did I mistype and write out “Might wing and Flame burg” for the prompt in my draft and laugh about it off and on for the better part of an hour? Yes, yes, I did.

Two sets of combat boots race across Bludhaven roof tops, both sets were similar in size, one just barely bigger than the other, “Okay, Flamebird, lets see take tonight easy, just a regular patrol, then on home, sound good?” the smooth, tenor voice is from the one wearing midnight black suit with a cobalt blue bird across the front extending to the tips of his fingers.

“Considering the arsonist from the last month’s fires has finally been arrested, that seems reasonable, Nightwing,” the other male agreed with a tenor-bass voice. He was wearing something similar, but his suit was wine red with a marigold bird across his chest, giving the impression of fire when he moves.

“Great, after all it’s your second anniversary, we have to celebrate!”

“I told you, Nightwing, I—”

“’Don’t want a party, and find it pointless’ but I think some people disagree and are waiting for your presence at home,” Nightwing replies with a smile gracing his face,

“TT,” let out Flamebird, but he did not complain as they began their track across the city.

When both vigilantes return home after a quiet patrol, Flamebird opens the fire escape window and upon entering sees a banner with “Happy 2nd Birthday!” and immediately releases a big groan, causing laughter from the others in the apartment. Titus runs over to the two and sniffs at them, then headbutts Damian for pets, Alfred the cat walks over to Dick walking between his legs, wanting attention.

“Go ahead and change, masters. Then the party shall begin,” Pennyworth instructs. Grayson thanks Pennyworth, throws his arm over Damian’s shoulders, and drags the teen down the hallway to change.

When both return to the living room in lounge clothes, the teasing begins, “So, how does it feel like being two, Demon?” Todd jeers at him from the couch.

“You should know, isn’t that how old you are, Todd?” Damian snarked back, sparking laughing in the room.

But Damian wasn’t paying attention to the room, his mind was roaming because Damian remembers the last time of wearing Robin’s colors.

Two and a half years ago on the rain-soaked roof across of Grayson’s Bludhaven apartment building, an equally soaked Damian picking out which apartment was Grayson’s, when he felt the presence of someone else on the roof, instantly alert. “Where are you supposed to be, Little Bird?” a familiar timber asked, instantly letting Damian release the tension from his muscles, he turned around to face his (brother? …father? …mentor?) mentor.

Grayson was in his Nightwing gear, a comforting sight compared the last time Damian saw him with his spy garb. Damian looked down and was reminded that he was not in his Robin uniform, he was sporting his black under armor long sleeve shirt, tights, thick green boots, and green domino mask.

Damian tried to explain, he really was, but he is still reeling from another (conversation? … lecture? … grilling?) conversation, “I—I have no place anymore.” He felt the burning behind his eyes, holding himself together with anger since leaving Gotham; however, his anger was fading, and Damian’s composure was wavering. “I am requesting shelter, Nightwing, I will be out by morning.” Damian requested, trying to pull himself together.

Damian knew Grayson was immediately picking apart his tense stance when touched the roof, “Why don’t we talk about what happened, huh? I was going to cut patrol short today anyway, slow night,” the vigilante gently answered. As Grayson was reaching for his grapple, he noticed Damian about to jump off the side of the building. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Little One, come here, we will discuss where your things are when we get home.” Damian shrugs and wraps his arms around his neck, legs around his waist, trusting him to swing them to the alley behind his apartment building to enter his apartment. “Okay, first things first- any injuries?” Grayson asks, taking off his mask waiting for Damian’s answer, which is a shrug, “Alright, go head and take a shower, okay? I’ll set some clothes out in front of the door, then we will patch you up,” he requested, knowing Damian needs to find his composure and demanding an explanation now will amount to nothing. Damian nods slowly and begins to head to the guest room and bath.

As Damian walked into the wash room he took of his final layer of armor and turns on the shower to his preferred temperature, he looks himself in the mirror. He has one black eye forming, a few bruises across his arms, and small cuts marring his olive skin, all things that can wait till he bathes to be dealt with. He is stepping into the shower when Grayson knocks on the door and speaks loudly, “I’m leaving the clothes right outside the door, okay, Little D?”

Damian gives a grunt of acknowledgement through the water streaming from the shower. He takes his time, making sure he was thoroughly clean and time to collect his thoughts for himself. When he exits the shower and opens the door, he spots a Cheese Viking sweatshirt, black lounge pants, socks, and undergarments piled on the clean floor. He pulls on the undergarments, bandages his cuts, puts on his socks, sweatshirt, and pants, then exits the wash room.

When Damian enters the living room, Grayson turns to survey his injuries, but he already treated himself and covered by bandages, defiantly not the worst he has gotten physically; however, his emerald eyes must show his pain and grief, because Grayson’s smile dims slightly. “Let’s go get some ice on that shiner, Dami, pick out what you want for dinner, then we can discuss what happened with B when it gets here, alright?” Grayson asks slowly getting up and guiding Damian to the kitchen, grabbing the first ice pack he sees and take-out menus from the freezer door, passing them to Damian, “I haven’t been able to go shopping this week with a gang war breaking out, so choose what you want to eat and I’ll call it in.”

Damian sits at the bar, looks through the menus while placing the compress to his face, wincing slightly. Pizza, Chinese, burgers, Vietnamese, Indian- he picks the Chinese and points out the vegetable fried rice for him to eat, passes the menus back to Grayson, and waits for the older man to make the phone call. “Anything to drink, Dami?” Grayson asks him, causing Damian to look up at the older man- still not speaking, causing Grayson to place his hand on Damian’s shoulder- “Juice, water, tea—” and Damian cuts Grayson off with a nod, “Okay, I have chamomile tea, and I remember how you like it- brown sugar, lemon, and a china cup. Which is perfect because I just bought a tea set…”

As Grayson walks around his kitchen, talking aimlessly, Damian relaxes slowly, the final bit tension draining from his shoulders. When he comes back with both of their tea and takes a seat next to him, Damian slowly move his hand till it rest near Grayson’s- not touching but absorbing the warmth and comfort from his brother.

Damian always knew wherever Grayson was, he had a safe place. Away from prying eyes. Away from extreme expectations. Away from the harmful things of the world. Grayson was Damian’s place of comfort. A place where he was free to feel, even if it was childish. A place where Damian could be Damian, not a Wayne or an Al-Ghul. Damian did not know how much he wanted (needed) that till he was resurrected and asked where Grayson was. Damian could not describe the feeling of being so overwhelmed that he shut down, did not sleep, eat, drink, anything for a week- just sat in his room with glassy eyes- till he walked into Grayson’s room and began to weep loudly, grasp the edges of Grayson’s blanket and tug and tug till the comforter was free, only for Damian to fall backwards onto the floor and wrap himself in the faint smell of Grayson and slept.

The doorbell interrupted Damian’s thoughts, prompting Grayson to get up, answer the door, and return to Damian’s side. “Okay, Little D, what happened?” Grayson prompted him.

Damian took in a deep calming breath, twirled his fork in his rice, and began slowly let the breath go. He went on to explain how Father had reacted to Damian ignoring his order to save a child from the Joker, “I saw things that Father did not. Father was dealing with Joker’s men, and I had a clear path to save him. So I did what I thought was right,” only for Bruce to rant when they got home, sparking a fight, eventually telling Damian that he has not changed since he arrived to Gotham, “I have proved over and over that I am different. I died for this—I died for him and his crusade for that city, yet it is clear that no matter how much I adapt my teaching and curb my upbringing, it is not enough—I am not enough…” Damian patters off, anger giving way for the hurt to set in, overwhelming the small boy for a couple of silent minutes and Grayson brought Damian into his arms, “Father made it clear that I am not welcome in Gotham for the foreseeable future. So, I came to the safest place I could think of… here.” Finishing his tale of woe, Damian felt his eyes burn again, but felt powerless to stop them, “Grayson, why am I not enough? Why am I never enough?” Finally, Damian’s tears spilt from his eyes, and Damian lost himself in his anguish, letting out sobs against the man’s chest.

“Oh, Dami, you are enough, you always have been enough. You deserve the world, and I am sorry that I can’t give it to you. You are alright…” Dick consoled the shaking teen, setting Damian on his lap, rubbing his hands in soothing motions on the teen’s back. After Damian’s tears slow and pulls back slowly, head bowed, Dick begins his plan, “You can stay here, okay? I keep Bruce from the apartment, away from this city if I have to. Damian held on to Dick the entire night, feeling peace for the first time he could remember.

Damian was shaken from his thoughts as Dick throws his arm around his shoulders, “Come on Little D, there is cake! Your favorite!”

“Red velvet and cream cheese frosting?”

“Exactly, Jason baked the cake and Alfred made the frosting, says his own secret recipe.”

After everyone said their hello and congratulations, Alfred sliced the cake, and began to pass them around- Damian getting the first slice. “Thank you, Pennyworth. I am appreciative of your presence tonight,” Damian spoke.

“Of course, Master Damian. I would not miss this for the world,” Alfred acknowledged, bringing his tea cup to his lips taking a small sip.

Damian took in all the guests that had shown. Wilkes, Kent, Darga, and Ducard were debating various team names that they thought could work. Todd, Drake, Brown, and Gordon were discussing a situation brewing from the docks of Gotham. Pennyworth and Grayson were sitting next to Damian in simple silence, soaking in the warmth of the small apartment, the peaceful atmosphere. Damian once again lost in his mind.

Two years ago in Grayson’s living room, sitting on the couch was both males, pouring over Damian’s sketch book, “Flamebird? A goddess?” Grayson asked.

Damian nods his head, “Based off the Kryptonian myths I have heard from Kent, yes. But this mantle does not depend on a person being male or female, like Superman or Wonder Woman. Also, the myths describe the entity as a destructive force, but for the betterment of life, such as farmers burning an old field before planting again the next year.”

“Okay, but what’s with the color scheme and no hood? It’s cool and all I’m just wondering, you loved the hood of your previous uniform.”

“The name is Flamebird, so black does not match with the name I am presenting, the color, wine, is dark enough to be concealed if need be. I have decided against black and a hood because I feel, perhaps… tired of being swallowed by shadows and darkness. Is that acceptable, Grayson?”

“Of course, it is, Dami. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not,” Grayson spoke softly, slowly wrapping his arms around the teen. Damian leaning slightly into the older man’s chest, nods his head, then slips out of the hold, and Grayson lets go. “We need to get these to Barbra, and you need to tell your friends about your name change, so they aren’t surprised next time you see them in uniform,” Grayson gently instructs, gathering the papers in his hand and phone up to his ear, “Hey Babs, I have a thing…”

Damian is suddenly jerking from his thoughts again as Grayson stands and announces, “Attention, attention, everyone near and far, I propose a toast! To Flamebird!”

“To Flamebird!” responds the small gathering, lifting their various beverages, smiles on their faces.

Then Grayson loudly says, “Speech! Speech!” thus sparks everyone as well, “Speech! Speech!” Damian looks at Alfred for help, but he just smiles and raises his cup.

Damian then rises from his seat, causing people to cheer, “I do not have anything planned, so this is the best I can do,” he begins turning to Alfred, “Pennyworth, you have taught me the value of tact and how manners are just as, if not more effective, than threats, but also the value of being a supporting person in someone’s life”, Alfred gave a quiet chuckle and grasps his hand in a quiet thanks, then Damian was twirling to his friends, “Wilkes and Kent, both of you have instilled in me the sense of friendship and how I can be even more effective and how I can rely on people if need be. Ducard showed me forgiveness, when no one else would look at me, you showed me how to be merciful in a world that is so cruel. Darga, you have been my example of perseverance, you and I have similar backgrounds with our families, but we have work on the same side of good.” After Damian’s speech Wilkes, Kent, and Ducard wraps him in a group hug, and Darga looks a little off put till Ducard grabs his arm and shoves him underneath her head, trapping him in the hug.

Damian’s cheeks turns red as he takes in a breath and walks towards his family, Gordon raising her eyebrow, “Gordon, you have given me many lessons, but the best one is you should never let others define your worth, so thank you. Todd, you have given me the best piece of advice from my time with my mother,” after Todd’s confused look Damian explained, “if you cannot beat them, give them hell,” at Damian’s words, Todd’s jaw drops.

“That was you! What the f—”

“Jason, shut up, it’s my turn!” Brown shouts and bounces on her feet.

Damian’s face began to turn even more red, “Brown, I have one lesson that you taught me that I treasure more than most, and that is your past does not define you, that you have a choice in how you act or react to a situation, that I always have a choice,” Brown wraps him in her arms and Damian feels a tear against his shirt, then she let him go, this gives Damian time to collect his thoughts. “Drake, I cannot explain how I feel when I think of our first year together, the things racing through my mind at the time we met, but I think you taught me something that will stick with me forever,” Drake looks uncomfortable, and Damian would agree, but this needed to be said, “I believe you taught me that it is acceptable to leave when someone is hurting you- that you should not have to accept someone’s behavior because they are ‘family’. And—” Damian sucks in another breath, “And I am sorry for the pain I caused and hope one day we can heal from the past, and slowly build a relationship- perhaps not brothers but—”

Drake grabs his arm, prompting Damian to look him in the eyes, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, “I accept your apology, Damian, and I think—I think I would like to start over too,” the smaller man agrees quietly, looking down.

“Just hug each other already!” Brown shouts still wiping at her eyes, causing Damian and Drake to spring apart, both flushed out of embarrassment. The two looks at each other, reading the body language and eyes of the other, and slowly Damian reaches his hand out and letting a small grin on his face. Drake smiles and grasps the younger’s hand, giving it a small shake, and Damian feels a heavy weight drop off his shoulders. “You two are ridiculous…” Brown mumbles, and shoves Drake into Damian forcing Damian to catch the smaller man, “There, you are welcome.” Both males roll their eyes at Brown’s actions and Damian helps Drake up.

Finally, turning to face Grayson, Damian felt his face heat up to his ears as Grayson let a gigantic, dazzling smile. Damian takes a final fortifying breath and his voice was slightly rough with emotion, “Richard, you have let me have a childhood, when I had none to begin with. When I did not know how be a child, you taught me how, provided opportunities, and encouraged me to do so. You showed me care and affection from the start- even when I did not want it, but when I unknowingly needed it, and you took an interest for my wants and needs when no one else would or could. You provided for me when I could not for myself. You treated me with respect, but also did not let me hurt myself or others. You taught me I am enough just by being myself, that I did not need to adapt, but let myself grow up of that I am still doing. You gave me a safe place, a peaceful place, that I can express myself with no fear of pain, harshness, or disappointment. There are no words to describe how that kindness—no that love means to someone like me, someone that felt beyond repair, holding on to anger and pain, because that was all I knew, that was all I was taught. Until you, Richard John Grayson, gave me a chance to become something beyond myself, beyond my pain, hurt, and anger. So, thank you for being my Batman, my mentor, and my partner. Most of all, thank you for opening your arms and welcoming me as part of your family. I can honestly say, I would not be here today if not for you.” Grayson started crying somewhere early in the speech and has not stopped.

Damian looks at everyone in the room, “I appreciate and care for all of you and I only pray that all of you can continue let me be by your sides for as long as I can.” Most eyes were wet, causing Damian to feel uncomfortable and wanting to fidget, but his hands were still till Brown and Ducard pulls him into another hug, then Kent, Pennyworth, and Gordon.

Lastly Grayson pulls Damian into a hug so hard the younger falls and his partner shove his head into the Damian’s neck and Damian feels tears against his neck, “That was so beautiful, Dami, you always make me happy. You are the best, Dami.”

Damian wraps his arms around Grayson tightly, slightly burying his face, “We are the best, Richard.”

“Hey, we can’t help being great.”

[chantokahkol]

Herb asks: chamomile — what’s something that always comforts you? (for Chanto); also "lilac" for character of your choice.

((SORRY FOR THE LONG POST!))

Chanto cocks a brow at the question. “Something that always comforts me…?” He shakes his head while cleaning up the genocide of toys around on the ground made by the twins. “It has to be my Queen and my little princess and prince.” He said with a confident smirk.

But he kept his gaze locked upon a certain toy for the longest of times in silence. Yet his grimace didn’t change, his voice did: “‘Tis not been like that always, I’ve faced hardships beyond your imagination, lost a whole star compared to what you damned… fools face or think of.” The words came out as hatred and anger, the grip around the toy tightened - but only for a split second before he calmed himself.

“Only a fool would dwell in the past, even a greater fool would not learn from it.” Chanto said with a stiffled laughter as he set the toys back to their place. He rose up and stared at the person asking him such question. “You may have a moment of darkness where you will allow it to consume you, but you better be damned sure you know how to get out of it if you do. Because the help will not come if it is self-caused.” 

He turned over to gaze upon his love Munkhsaran in her wheelchair taking care of the twins. “Perhaps one sun it will, and when that time comes…” He let out a quiet sigh with a proud face once again; “It will dive into the abyss and Darkness. The help will raise their sword high from within, and become a beacon of light. To lead any foolish enough to fall back to the light, Where they belong.”

Chanto gave a firm nod. “Do not take things for granted-” he said as he reached for the thermos pouring a nice cup of Pitch-dark and soulless coffee, made by his waifu. “-or you’ll easily lose everything.” A slow sip from it before he nudged his head for the person that asked such question to leave. “Begone, It is my time with the family and I wish to spend it well.”

LILAC - ALESTAIR CTASAAU (SURPRISE!)— what’s your favorite thing that you did as a teenager?

The massive armor seems to stare at the person asking the question in silence. “Short, a lot of memories, data and lessons.”

The colossal Armour  would be roughly the size of a Roegadyn - if not taller. He seemed to take a pause before he finally elaborated: “Rearranged Dad Boss’ vials and flasks in chronological order he made them… he was not amused.  Another time provoked Nodes to cause chaos in location- was justly punished and lesson memorized.” Alestair took another pause and stared at the person:

“Subject seems to have lack of nourishment compared to the amount of work output, high recommendation to get proper fluid intake of 8.1571 Ponze of freshwater every sun along with natural food that have health-giving qualities for subject in question.”

And that seems to be the only question and conversation Alestair had, he kept on repeating himself until the person accepted the recommendation or went on its way!

((Thanks for the Question @ren-roelanberry!))

[deadkidontheroad]

So my friend is a really good writer but they have really bad self confidence issues, so I'm looking for feed back for them. This is an unedited raw chapter hope you enjoy!! It's called Knoxwell Anson

(Chapter 2) shouting in silence

Knoxwell Anson rocked tediously on his chair, the walls were lined with books and ladders, and in the middle sat him. It was his favorite spot in the entirety of the palace, riddled with a layer of dust and more a home to him then anywhere had ever been. It made him feel like something bigger than himself. In the center of so many different stories of the past, so many adventures. If they could survive through such difficult times so could he. That’s exactly what he did. He survived.

Knoxwell looked carefully to the sky and then back to the shadows creeping slowly up and down the walls. They whispered quietly to him, sending tiny shivers dancing along his spine. He touched a hand gently to the vial in his pocket. The Dwelm they had given him was soft against his skin, the colors of such dwelms were the most vibrant shades to represent his life within walls of the Queen. It was a metallic blue, his Dze, the color that represented him and had since birth. However since his arrival it had became much of an embarrassment. Fore, there was no creme representing the Llir of his family, instead the Dwelm remained only a single shade, and looking at the sleeves he couldn’t help but frown remembering the first Dwelm that he had ever worn. With both the colors of himself and his family.

Knoxwell looked to the shadows in dismay and they glared back, the sound of whispers filling his ears and spinning his head. Shadows were not cruel things, they were home to both good and bad, however the poisonous speakers often spoke the loudest, making Knoxwell dread more than ever his supposed gift. Why was it that the good was always silenced by the bad?

He walked stiffly over to the shadows and looking behind himself for a moment he allowed his eyes to consume every book in his view, every shelf and every particle of dust. There was nobody there. And taking a deep breath in he allowed the shadows to consume him. Darkness. It washed over him with a familiar warmth that made him close his eyes. The whispers silenced at his command. He remembered the long hours he had spent battling with the invisible demons, how long it took to master the unpredictable current of the shadows. They now carried him along, across the dark areas of the palace and eventually onto the streets of Caonterier. In a lesson with his professor once, he had compared the shadows to the ocean. The way that they moved swiftly and silently, carrying along animals and those caught in the wake along with it. When Knoxwell had asked what represented the voices of the shadows, his professor had smiled and said, the good voices were the mermaids and the bad sirens.

Caonterier had once been a considerably cheerful town, and despite everything the folks in it continued to try and bring the spirit back. The streets were bustling, with people beginning the days work and others checking out. Knoxwell snuck seamlessly away from the shadows a headache beginning to attack the front of his head. He sighed, rubbing it for a moment before swiftly continuing down the dirty paved path. He grabbed a tiny leaf from his pocket, and pressed it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. The windows of shops were dark, the people stern.

They were the realists of the kingdom, the ones who had been hurt so badly that smiling hurt. They weren’t unlike him in many ways. They looked at him now, anger and misunderstanding clear. Knoxwell shivered a lump forming in his throat. They were all confused in the present day, and it seemed that everything was blurred. He walked on preoccupying himself by looking at his feet, and wondering what things that he would be forced to listen to at the day's meeting. Neither of these brought him much comfort and when the right time came he found it easy to look up. He stood in front of a house. It loomed a dark violet with large windows and a blue front porch. Knoxwell checked the vile in his pocket once more, and began up the path to the house.

The shadows climbed up and down the inside of the porch, grasping on desperately like vines to a tree. Taking a deep breath he once again hid behind the darkness of them. They whispered in his ears and he simply ignored them, pressing the leaf harsher against his mouth. He traveled silently into the owner’s kitchen. She was a wealthy woman, with a lack of enthusiasm since her husband had been killed in the Moonlit Fires. That was all he wished to know about the women. It was easier to chase away the bad dreams at night if he could convince himself none of this had ever happened. The facts were simple, her daughter was nearly as rich as her mother, and she had offered up a decent sum if he would sneak something into her mother’s morning tea.

Knoxwell loomed over the steaming green cup of chamomile. It smelled good and for a moment he longed for the tea that Madam Victoria had made for him on the docks of the Swan. This only lasted for a moment as the strong sent of the poison hit his nose. It was sharp, stabbing at him and stinging his eyes. Knoxwell tipped the vial over the cooling tea and watched as the contents emptied themselves into the cup. It was inky, moving through the space between the vial and cup in a strange wobbly fashion. The tea remained the same color and he snapped the vial lid shut. He heard the footsteps of the women and shoving the vial back into his pocket snuck back into the shadows, his feet hitting the ground silently, and his movements unhurried.

The shadows were always the worst after. The good and nasty voices fighting over his choices, and eating away at his vulnerability. Trying their best to fill the tiny space in his heart that had been temporarily ripped open again. He didn’t stop in the town on his way back, and when he finally left the warmth of the shadows he was back in the center of the library. The bindings looking at him with curiosity and disgust.

“Knoxwell Anson! I do not recall the Queen giving you permission to leave the Palace today.” The voice that spoke was high pitched and hopelessly annoying. Knoxwell snapped his head, looking over to see a short Flistarri with curling red hair and small crest. Knoxwell sighed.

“Yes, well it’s a good thing she doesn’t know isn’t it?” Sir. Elfend looked at him with strong irritation and Knoxwell laughed ryely. One of his favorite hobbies had become annoying the tiny Flistarrian. Who currently held his hands placedly on his hips.

“You’re expected for the meeting right now!”

“Bzier! And here I was hoping that they’d forgotten.” His eyebrow twitched as he sharply pivoted and began towards the doorway. Knoxwell followed taking long lazy strides. It had once been a mystery to Knoxwell, why the Queen insisted on hosting meetings when she hated them almost as much as himself. However as he had grown older he realized that she used them to help convince others of the problems they were currently facing.

The room was silent as he walked in, and they turned their eyes onto him. Madam Victoria gave him something of a fiery glare that made him frown. He turned his head making momentary eye contact with Dri, the owner of one of the wealthiest plants in Caonterier. Sighing, he took his seat next to Lanla, a beautiful girl who had her face caked in berry’s and balms.

“I didn’t know we hired a clown,” He observed and she pursed her lips, looking back to the table. He smiled, knowing that at least one pair of eyes had stopped staring through him.

“Now, that the-the Ues is here may we please continue on with our conversation?” The sentence was initiated by an old man, with a greying beard and a stern glance. Knoxwell shivered at the sound of the word, Ues. It was what he was. A nuestarrian. Knox chewed his cheek.

“Yes, the cities have been at ends, for too long now.” A pale starri responded with a squeaky voice, clearly ignoring the cruel term used only a moment ago.

“Well perhaps that is because you can never seem to keep your business to yourself.” Dri added, making his mouth twist.

“Yes, times have been harsh in the north. Food has been less, and it seems nothing is going my way or anyone’s,”

“It is truly awful, the ball was canceled last week!” Lanla’s identical sister broke in and Knoxwell looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, how horrible.” He added with a mocking tone that made the girls face scrunch up. Victoria looked at him as if to remind him of the conversation they had had only a couple of moons ago. He ignored it.

“Can somebody remind me why this Ues here?”

“Oh, look at you! All grown up and using big girl words!” Lanla stifled a laugh receiving the iron glare of her father.

“It’s bad enough you look like you’ve got mud splattered all over your face, but a dark elemantai too?”

“Ah yes, because being a blond Cheiron is so desirable.” A couple of the others let out a gasp, only Lanla seemed to be entertained by the feud, as she kept her hand placed strategically over her mouth. Madam Victoria’s lips were pursed in amusement.

“I won’t allow you to speak to my daughter that way!” Drinshouted across the table, Knox dramatically wiped a drop of spit from his forehead.

“Your daughter? And here I was thinking she was your wife… They’re about the same age are they not?”

“You are foolish Knoxwell Anson!” He smiled.

“I don’t deny that I’m foolish however you are the fool.” Lanla let out a full out laugh and Knoxwell felt the eyes of the table looking to him. Knoxwell looked straight forward, holding his mouth in a thin and stern line.

“That is enough! Your Majesty! He is not entitled to be here!” Victoria, who had stayed silent carefully twisted a wavy white lock around her finger.

“You’re absolutely correct, I shouldn’t be here.” Knoxwell stood abruptly up, making Victoria snap her eyes up.

“Knoxwell Anson sit back down.” he sighed, turning on his side and falling back into the seat.

“As I consider him much like a son, I would appreciate if you would stop referring to him in such ways, Or would you prefer I call you a Cheiren the rest of our chat?” she announced. He stilled, making Victoria smile, “Thank you,”

The meeting drew on at what felt to Knox as a painstakingly slow pace. When they were finally excused, Knox was on his feet and heading for the doorway in an instant. He ignored the judgemental glance of Dri, and was managing to sneak his way down the hallway without running into anybody when he heard a tiny voice. He jumped.

“Knoxwell?” It was deep and hid something of familiarity to him. Despite his wish to avoid running into Dri or either of his daughters, he stopped dead in his tracks looking around carefully.

“That is my name...” he drifted off unsure of what direction to look to. However the sound of shuffling and scraping made Knoxwell turn to the tiny space between the large red staircase and the map of Caonterier. Sitting hidden by the shadows sat a pale figure. Familiarity crept into the back of his mind, as the figure crawled from the spot standing tall.

“Jude?” He asked after a moment, it had taken him a moment to recall his name. His best friend's name. A spark of memories dashed through his mind and he shoved them hastily aside.

“I need a place to hide, and I was in the castle and I heard your name down the hallway…”

“Why are you here? This isn’t a good place, your sisters could be killed?” Jude opened his mouth his eyes becoming watery. The Guards were hardly fond of many, and as many times as Madam Victoria talked to them, they hardly listened to her insistence against brutally injuring guests.

“It’s only me right now, I don’t know where they are.” Knoxwell looked around quickly, trying to recall the faces of them. The sounds of voices made Knoxwell leap into action and before he could think he was grabbing Jude’s arm and pushing him back into the shadows allowing the familiar cold of the shadows to hide them from who ever might have seen them. “Sorry,” He whispered to Jude.

Bringing somebody with him into the darkness was a difficult task and as soon as they were hidden he could feel his pull on Jude becoming fainter. He wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer. Not to mention the short term affects that the dark could have a normal Starri… Knox closed his eyes scrunching his eyebrows. He concentrated on staying still. The current moving past in a hurried fashion, as Knoxwell pressed his back into the wall in hopes of staying still longer. The current pressed harshly against his back, a cold frostbitten breeze that made him wish more than anything to be greeted by the warm sands of home again. This was bad. One thing from the past and he was suddenly craning his neck behind to get a better view of what had already happened.

Finally he gave in allowing himself to bring Jude back into the hallway. Jude stumbled clumsily forward landing on the rough carpet, gasping desperately for air. Knox stood for a moment allowing Jude to catch his bearing before grabbing onto his arm and pulling him up. They needed to find someplace more private, where people wouldn’t constantly be passing through. Knoxwell wasn’t allowed to bring people to the palace, Madam Victoria had insisted that if they wished to see him in the palace, they surely weren’t in his best interest of having as friends. However this was different, than the random fan trying to earn his trust in hopes of seeing the palace.

The library was abandoned and the minute they stepped through the beads hanging in the doorway Jude ripped his arms roughly away and looked at Knoxwell, eyebrows touching one another. “What was t-that?” He gestured wildly with his hands before using one to smooth down his blue hair.

“The shadows,” Knoxwell muttered, flipping carelessly through a book that one of his professors had insisted that he read. He had yet to even start it. All of the volumes were the same, dates and facts nothing more. Just bland words, that had been written down without a second thought. Sometimes he found himself in the book. Sometimes he was able to see the adventure and the story behind it all. However as time went on he found it harder and harder to see things that didn’t exist.

“Isn’t that like, illegal? I came to you because I was hoping you were still sane.” Jude insisted pacing aimlessly. Knox sighed crossing his arms. The last time he’d seen Jude they were nearly half the height they were now, and he saw now that he must look just as different to his past friend as Jude did to him.

“I’ve lost track of the sane, and insane. All I can hope is that I’m somewhere in the middle.” Jude stopped pacing.

“They miss you in Zaerea…” Knoxwell scuffed.

“You know just as well as me that I’m nothing. I’m nothing to them just another stone on the path.” The words tumbled out instinctively.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you and your life, I just had nowhere else to go… and I hoped…” Jude began.

“You hoped that I remember the favor I owe you?” Jude sighed. Nodding his head slightly. Knoxwell could forget if he wanted, shove things into the far corners of his brain if he needed to. However some things managed to sneak their way back, some things weren’t ever forgotten, simply pushed aside for another time.

“You’ve changed.” Jude muttered. Knoxwell settled his face into a slight grin, looking back to a very serious Jude.

“So have you. Change is inevitable.” Jude matched his bittersweet smile, and for a moment they stood across from one another. Two friends reunited after taking the separate paths of their lives. Two friends recalling the heartache, the laughs and the friendship.

“Knoxwell Anson! I hope you know that the Queen does not appreciate your little scene!” The voice was of Sir. Elfend, and with a slight flick of his wrist. Jude was sprinting behind a large bookshelf just as the stout starri entered once more. Knoxwell sighed flipping through a book that he had managed to quickly grab.

“I see you just can’t stay away from me…” Jude widened his eyes dramatically through the books and Knoxwell looked away quickly.

“Yes, you are quite funny Anson.” Jude stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes, as if he had only been born a couple moons ago. Had Jude always been this prone to comical facial expressions? And worse had Knoxwell actually missed the humor his friend always managed to find? Knoxwell looked back to Sir. Elfend who looked anything but amused.

“Then why are you here?” Knox quickly took a step to the side as Sir. Elfend forced himself into the center of the room picking a violet book from off of the shelf.

“I needed a book. This is the library after all.” He gave Knox a cheesy grin that made his insides resituate themselves. With that he was gone and Jude was walking back into the center of the room.

“Who was that guy?” Knoxwell bit his cheek.

“Sir. Elfend, the most annoying Starri to ever exist in the entirety of the universe,” Knox looked carefully out of the window, the sun was beginning to kiss the horizon and he looked around at the growing shadow on the wall.

‘You good?” Jude asked. Knoxwell shook his head turning on his heel walking over to his tiny stash of things in the corner. “What are you doing?’

“I have to go…” he drifted off carefully picking up a tiny dagger and shoving it carefully into a spot in his Dwelm.

“Was that a knife?”

“No it was a kitten,” Knox responded dryly.

“Why do you have a knife?”

“Because my job is to kill people, and a knife does most of it for me.” Jude stumbled backwards suddenly aware that he was standing alone in a room with a trained killer.

“H-how could you do this?” Knox took a deep breath looking at Jude carefully.

“You don’t understand,.” it was unclear whether Knoxwell was convincing himself or Jude however neither spoke for a moment. Some part of him knew that what he did was wrong, but it was just the way of the world. It made Madam Victoria proud, and it kept him alive.

“Can I come with you?” Jude finally managed and Knoxwell tilted his head in a questioning manner. Going alone would be easier. If he traveled with Jude they’d have to scale the palace, like he used to do before he could travel solely by the shadows. He didn’t want to go alone though, more than one in a day was always hard, and despite the risk Knoxwell nodded his head.

“Yes, but we have to stay inconspicuous okay? This isn’t one of Madam Victoria’s assignments,” he didn’t know why he bothered with other missions, maybe it was that deep down he thought that maybe one day he could travel. If he managed to store enough money, maybe someday he could wash up on some forgotten shore and write away his worries.

The stones of the palace exterior were rough and Knoxwell struggled to hold on, Jude was below him and judging by the lack of chatter he had been making he was having even less luck than him. Knoxwell had forgotten how hard climbing down was and he focused carefully on the window instead of the ground. It was a method that he had come up with a long time ago and was thankful to use now.

It was strange, that only a couple days ago none of these things had happened. Knoxwell had been keeping his thoughts focused on the thin page of a book, and trying to keep his thoughts from drifting away to crazy things. Now here he was climbing down the palace walls with his old friend who for a long while now he had chosen to think of as dead.

“Knoxwell, ignoring my rules once again I see.” The voice made Knoxwell nearly jump and he dug his nails into the rock holding on with hardly anything. He heard the sound of a bush move, and he knew that Jude had managed to hide himself. The shadows whispered to him.

Leaning out of the window, with hair flowing in nearly every direction was Madam Victoria. She held a stern and dissatisfied expression strictly on her face and Knoxwell felt slightly queasy when he was finally able to heave himself over the window sill and back onto the carpet. Bzier. He’d been caught. The Queen looked down at him, keeping her mouth in a thin line. He looked down at the floor, a toddler being punished by their parent.

“Am I to believe that you were sneaking out again? Why this time? You know very well that I would have let you go if you’d a told me...” He didn’t have the heart to tell her of his plans. He wanted to leave, and she knew that she wouldn’t want him to. Madam Victoria was weird like that, and she was known for her anger fits.

“It wasn’t like that, I just wanted to get some fresh air” He insisted.

“By scaling a wall? Knoxwell we have found ourselves in this situation one too many times. You are going to get yourself killed!” She announced, tears in her eyes. His stomach knotted.

“I just..”

“You just what?” She asked. He sighed.

“I want to travel,” He muttered and she looked at him, a deep frown setting into her face.

‘So you were what? Sneaking away at any chance you got? Do you know how bad that makes me look?”

“Sorry,” Her face tensed.

“Knoxwell I need you here,” She responded.

“But I want to go off and have my own adventures, and if I can’t write about them tha-” she waved her hand in a silencing motion.

“Again with the writing… Knoxwell you are to take the throne after me, and you can’t very well do that dead!”

“You’re the one who sends me out on all of those missions,”

“You are a shath Knoxwell,” The word made him still, “If you ignore the shadows you know what could happen,” She was right, but she wasn’t as well. Maybe if he wasn’t always stuck inside…. He carefully looked up at Madam Victoria, “Oh, Knoxwell.” Her voice changed in a moment, and he was quickly taken off guard. “I know that it is difficult at first, but you must understand that you are doing the right thing. Think off all the people that they hurt, and then you put an end to the nonsense, you save so many people,” The lump in his throat grew as he swallowed roughly.

“I know…” he mumbled.

“Good. But i’m afraid you’re going to be grounded for the next couple of moons,” he sighed. He had only been grounded a couple of times, but due to his ability, being grounded was much like being a prisoner.

The guards hurried in.

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 5

Chapter: I II III IV

AO3 Linkage

Summary: Rhysand shows up unexpectedly to help Feyre's family move, bringing Cassian and Azriel with him. Sparks fly between Nesta and the rest of the family as the new house isn't what any of them were expecting, but Rhys has a way of keeping Feyre from completely breaking down throughout the day. [Almost exactly the same as the “Moving Day” fic I posted over summer, though there are some small changes. Sorry for the redundancy!]

Chapter 5

I awoke to a heavy slam! of the front door downstairs. My eyes flew open at the same time my hand groped for the clock on my nightstand, one of the few remaining items I had yet to pack.

6:39am

My eyes sank shut with a silent growl as my chest deflated. Voices several decibels too high for such an ungodly hour reached me from the living room.

Where does it look like I’m going?

Nesta, my brain registered, cataloging the new shade of anger she had somehow managed to find apart from her usual storm. My eldest sister was always angry, like the Hulk in hipster form.

Half your room is still a mess, my dad shouted back. We’re moving today, if you hadn’t noticed! Elain and Feyre’s things are already on the truck.

They’re my things. What do you give a shit what I do with them?

Nesta-

Just don’t, okay? Save it.

I will not save it! You’re free to do whatever the “shit” you want with your things, as you so beautifully put it. No doubt you get the language from that stupid writing degree you have, but whatever you do with your own room, we could have used you last night with the rest of this nightmare. A pause. You aren’t the only one with “shit” to take care of you know!

His voice rose on the last few words as Nesta’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, approaching.

I’ll give a shit about your shit when you decide being a family again is worth caring about!

My heart sped up as her footsteps reached my door and paused. I prayed silently she would leave me alone at least until I’d had a chance to properly wake up. Her own bedroom door slammed and I heard general clutter being shuffled about before the distinct sound of tape was pulled for boxes.

I breathed a sigh of relief and rolled over onto my back, willing my body to wake up.

The ceiling above me was still the crisp, clean white I’d stared at all yesterday afternoon. Empty. Just like the rest of my room.

Every single item I’d ever decided was worth keeping now sat in less than a dozen boxes in a huge Uhaul moving van parked out front. I had so much useless junk to pack, but in the end, I threw most of it away. I felt guilty at the thought of taking it all with us to the new house where we’d have less space. The entire point of moving was to downsize since dad couldn’t afford the monstrosity of a house we’d grown up in anymore without mom. It felt cruel to make him take all of that extra baggage with him to the new home, even if it wasn’t his extra baggage to deal with.

So I had stuffed most of my room into those hideous black bags that never hold their weight like they claim and dumped it into the trash cans out front along with the rest of my doubts over moving.

I had no choice. This was a thing. It was happening. I could accept it with all of the consequences that came with it and move on, or stay behind and try not to drown. I was choosing the former, but somehow I still felt like I was drowning.

Dad’s shout had been loud and angry, the same as when he would fight with mom. I wondered if he had already opened the liquor cabinet.

A light knock tapped on my door. My stomach twisted into knots immediately at the anxiety of it being Nesta, but Elain’s fairy voice put me at ease.

“Feyre?” she said, the door creaking open. I sat up to find her walking toward me, a small tea cup perched in her hand with steam hissing out the top. She smiled as she handed it to me before sitting next to me on the bed. I closed my eyes as the steam kissed my lips before taking a sip.

Chamomile and honey. My favorite.

“Morning, sleepy head,” my second eldest sister said. “I thought you could use a proper wake up after…”

“After Nesta?” I said. Elain shrugged with half an eye roll. I closed my eyes knowingly and took another sip. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Elain smiled, courtesy oozing out of her like an annoyingly delightful old Hollywood film you know should bore the snot out of your 21st century movie filter, but that you can’t help be inspired by. She was staring at me apologetically and I couldn’t help but compare my two sisters.

Unlike Nesta, Elain still came around occasionally, pretended we were still a family even if she was critical of dad’s drinking, something I couldn’t really fault her for even though heaven knew I tried.

I missed when we were kids. They were both a lot older than me and had always been closer to each other than to me, but I could remember us getting along while I was still small.

Now, they felt like strangers more and more to me every day that I didn’t see them. At least Elain had come home when dad asked to help with the house. Sure she’d gotten her skirts dirty, but today she’d had enough foresight to put on some athletic wear. I tried not to notice the Burberry tags sticking off of it.

“Pop downstairs when you’re ready, mmkay?” she said. “We need to get going by 8am sharp if we want to beat moving in the heat!” She bounced up and glided to the door, her hair swishing in a perfect ponytail behind her. She had slipped out the door for half a second before her head darted back in and I saw all of her pearly whites gleam at me. “And I’ve got pancakes!”

And then she was gone again.

It was comforting to know that if Nesta was going to come round today with her usual fire, Elain would be here with her beautiful, happy calm. I needed to stop judging her so harshly when she was so pleasant with me.

I stood up, stretching in my yoga pants and tank. I didn’t bother leaving out a change of clothes or makeup since it would be ruined after a sweaty hour of traipsing up and down stairs. My lone oversized sweater, the one covered in paint stains from evenings spent painting, was all I kept out, figuring it was good for a fight. Maybe it would even bring me luck today. I shrugged it on savoring the smell of the dried paint and the way it knew my soul so well.

Glancing at the clock, I scooped up Elain’s tea and allowed myself the last lazy stare out of my bedroom window I’d refused last night. It was the last time I’d ever see this view. The sunlight filtering through the panes of glass looked stale. I probably should have been sad, but there was some relief in leaving. Maybe the prospect of a fresh beginning in a real neighborhood would make being a family more real.

But my naive morning zen was cut short when I looked out my second story window and saw not the oversized manor across the street, but Rhysand strutting up my driveway with two hulking figures behind him. Tea spat out of my mouth in a spray on the window as the cup toppled on the bed.

I bolted downstairs flying for the door, anxiety crippling my stomach as a million questions flew at once.

What the hell is he doing here! Oh my gosh, I didn’t invite him. I told him I didn’t need help! Why did you have to word vomit on him like that last night, Feyre, you idiot. Now he’s going to think you’re a complete basketcase and he’ll never talk to you again. Wait - why do you even care if he talks to you again??

I reached the door and pulled on the handle, but not before the ring of the doorbell shattered through the house.

Shit.

Rhys’s eyebrows rose as he took in my flushed appearance standing at the door. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra beneath my sweater - thank goodness it was oversized - or that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. The corners of his lips threatened to turn up in that infuriating smile he made a habit of flashing me, the one that always seemed permanently plastered over his beautiful face.

I quickly stepped outside, forcing Rhys and his friends to jump back in surprise before I shut the door behind me. Crossing my arms, I stared him down.

“What are you doing here?” I spat in a low voice. “And how did you get my address?”

I was going to murder Amren.

Rhys chuckled. “Is there a reason we’re whispering?” he asked. “Are you scared of your family finding us? Or do you have a house ghost? Please tell me it’s not haunted. I’m not sure I’m prepared for protective snuggling this early in the morning.”

I gaped open mouthed at him before darting forward. “Very funny,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who knew the High Lord of the Student Body Council would be afraid of ghosts.”

“Oh it’s not me,” Rhys replied, hands up cooly in defense. “It’s Cassian.” His head flitted over his right shoulder in the direction of the most chiseled, hulking boy, man - man-boy? - I’d ever seen grace the body of a teenager. Assuming he was a teenager. He had to be if he was hanging out with Rhys, but hot damn, the idea of that monstrosity lurking around campus was almost scary. If it weren’t for the shoulder length hair I imagined was just long enough to tie up, he would have looked way too old for high school.

How had I never spotted him before? The man was a beast.

Rhys leaned in and held a hand up to my ear. I had to resist the urge to back away as he spoke. “Poor kid still can’t get through Casper the Friendly Ghost without crying.”

Cassian shoved Rhys roughly, but Rhys laughed it off uproariously right as the door opened behind me. I froze as I heard my dad’s voice. The boys straightened up at once.

“Feyre?” my dad asked tentatively, eyeing Rhysand warily and very clearly looking around for what should have been Tamlin’s blonde facade. “What’s going on? Who are these-”

“Rhysand, sir,” Rhys said, reaching around me to hold out his hand, no trace of fear whatsoever. My father took it with a look on his face as if he were being asked to hold a viper. “And these are my brothers, Cassian and Azriel.”

My eyes darted briefly to the boy on Rhys’ left, the one he’d named Azriel. He was muscled, but not nearly as much as Cassian, though not as lean as Rhysand either. Somewhere in the middle. But though he had build to him, he looked like a shadow that might float away at the slightest touch. His eyes felt hollow as he took me in and I wondered where the color had gone in them. He hadn’t said anything or so much as moved since I’d stepped out on the porch and he didn’t look as though he intended to change that anytime soon.

And his hands. They were scarred terribly. Even standing behind Rhys in the shadow of our porch, I noticed them. I shivered imagining what could have done something so gruesome. His eyes met mine, catching me staring and immediately our gaze bounced away, the wrong ends of two magnets meeting.

“Brothers?” I asked looking for a distraction. Rhys merely darted his eyebrows up once in reply.

“We heard you could use a hand - or six - moving that truck around today, sir,” Rhys said. At the offer of help, my dad’s entire demeanor changed.

“Oh that’d be great!” my dad said, joining me a step closer, his arm going around my shoulder. He looked so genuinely pleased for me. “You didn’t tell me you had friends coming to help. Good for you, kiddo! Your old man appreciates it.”

The momentary smile so rarely seen on my dad’s face felt like a gift from the gods who must have known I’d been struggling. I sensed a warmth coming from Rhys half a step away and was about to turn and give my thanks, all of my earlier hesitancy about his arrival gone, when a sharp voice snapped from behind my dad.

“That’s because Feyre doesn’t have friends, dad,” Nesta said with that razor of a tongue. Elain stood next to her, a look of worry flickering in her soft grey eyes. My own anxiety returned in full force.

Nesta was wearing a baggy pair of grey cargo pants with a tight fitting crop top that was an equally depressing shade of grey, but I suppose Nesta would have said it was trendy. It showed off her generous curves, particularly the full bust her bra failed to strap down properly, though it wasn’t without taste. Long ash blonde locks similar to my own flowed in waves on either side even as she tucked one length behind her ear to reveal a small patch of hair she’d buzzed short. Dark ruby red lipstick the color of dried blood stained her lips.

I had expected nothing less.

“And who the hell are you, dollface?” Cassian said, eyes widening while a huge grin of interest set off on his face. Nesta’s expression soured even more as she looked at Rhysand’s hellhound before her nose sort of pinched together and she ignored Cassian outright. Cassian chuckled a bit incredulous at the gesture, crossing his arms with sway - a lion preparing for a fight.

“You wanted me to help,” Nesta spat at my dad. “So why are we all standing around out here like a bunch of apes while Feyre pretends to have a life? My shit’s all packed up,” and she pointed behind her to the first of what I was sure would be many boxes to come that she’d brought down. “I’d like to move it into the truck now, unless you’ve decided this family’s actually worth saving and we’re staying?”

I closed my eyes and held my breathe, tension roiling in my gut. With my back turned on him, I was glad Rhys couldn’t see my face where I was sure embarrassment would read in the redness settling in on my cheeks. I had told him we were moving and my parents had split - but he didn’t know the circumstances of how or why and Nesta was riding dangerously close to that line.

“Oh-ho,” Cassian said and he sounded… delighted? “Allow me, dollface.”

He moved forward and Nesta couldn’t help but to stand back and let him by with that huge frame of his looming at her, but she still managed a snarl at him. She was at least a good foot shorter than him. “Don’t call me dollface, shithead,” she said and she sounded furious.

“Nesta Archeron!” my father said and already, my family was shouting at each other again.

“What would you prefer I call you?” Cassian retorted. “If I went with something more honest, I fear we’d enter into a battle of wits and I get the sense you don’t like losing very much.”

My jaw dropped at the same time Nesta’s did, right before her eyes narrowed. Cassian had grabbed two of Nesta’s boxes and was back out the door before she could say another word. I’d never seen her speechless before or called out on her bitchery right to her face. My dad had practically stopped breathing.

“Coffee,” I said to him firmly, grabbing him by the shoulders and willing him to go away. “For the boys? The boys who are so graciously helping us move for free today?”

He took a deep breathe while closing his eyes for a moment before nodding. “Coffee,” he agreed and trudged off to the kitchen I knew was mercifully on the other side of the house.

Nesta was watching Cassian in the distance with a venomous stare that could have murdered him if he wasn’t careful. When he had set the second box down, that stare turned on me.

“He doesn’t touch any more of my stuff. Not a single damn-”

“I know!” I hollered, trying not to join the frenzy of raised voices in this house. “I won’t let him touch any of your precious bloody books. Just go get your junk and move already, okay?”

Nesta scowled, but spun on her heel with a click and disappeared to the bowels of her room upstairs. Elain followed.

When I went back to the boys on my porch, Rhys had tucked his hands into his pockets while a  small, sweet smile played out on his face. “Your family’s positively delightful, Feyre,” he said as if he meant it. As if we were anything but a delight. I still didn’t understand what he was really doing here. “But you’ll have to excuse me if I do say you’re the clear standout among them by a very long mile.”

For the first time, Azriel moved, a short sigh of exasperation escaping him. It was almost imperceptible. Rhys’ eyes danced as he stared into me daring me to laugh. If Tamlin hadn’t canceled on me today, I knew he would have run in the opposite direction the second Nesta appeared at the door ready for a fight. They never got along.

And here was Rhys flirting with me over her.

But the laugh faltered on my lips and with it went Rhysand’s smile. I shook the comparison away, surprised I’d even made it. There was no Rhysand in my life so there was nothing to really compare.

“Let’s just get started, hmm?” I said. “Before I figure out what you three are really up to and I kick you all out on your sorry asses.”

“Oh I like her already, Rhys,” Cassian said walking back to us.

Rhys’ smile returned and he laid a hand out before me to gesture us inside, far too much bravado dripping from his voice. “After you, milady.”

A knight in shining armor after all.

“So what’s the deal with your sister?”

I groaned internally, wishing Cassian hadn’t just asked me that question.

I spent the good part of an hour trying to keep everyone apart while we loaded the last remnants of my old life onto that truck. It wasn’t easy, but somehow I’d managed. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken long.

Nesta dragged behind the longest of all, but by that point I was already sitting in the front seat of Rhys’ car while Cassian and Azriel popped in the back and we shot off.

My stomach growled loudly as Rhys put the car in gear. Whether he heard it or not, he didn’t say, but he did reach into the back seat and pull out the distinctly pink cardboard box that could only house one thing: donuts.

“Thank you,” I said, reaching in for a sugar twist, my absolute favorite. He watched me lick the excess sugar from my fingers with a bit of a haze on his face that I had to remind him he was meant to be driving. He smirked before his head faced forward and concentration became his mask.

I couldn’t help but to study him. That smirk had saved me more than once already this morning. Between Nesta and Cassian nearly crossing paths at every second, my dad rubbing a frustrated hand over his neck when one of mom’s vases dropped, Elain twirling around pretending to be useful when really she was just pretty, Rhys anchored me back to earth with the promise of better on his lips every time.

And now I was sitting in a car with less than a foot separating us while Cassian shoved a devil’s food in his mouth and inquired about my sister. “Like, is she single?” he asked between bites. I snorted.

“Nesta is nearly ten years older than you,” I said leaning around the front seat to look at him. “Ten.”

Cassian shrugged. “I like an older woman.” I scowled and leaned away as he finished chewing, the chocolate glaze smacking against his lips. “Seriously, what’s her deal?”

Rhys kept his eyes on the road like I’d asked, but I could feel his attention on me. I sighed.

“Nesta is, like I said, ten years older than me, which makes her way too old for you, Cassian, so don’t get any ideas. I don’t care what you think you want in a woman. She goes to school in LA where she’s studying Comparative Literature with concentrations in Russian lit and Slavic Languages.”

A tisk from the back seat interrupted me. Azriel. When I looked at Rhys, amusement was flickering on his face before he risked a quick glance at me and cut it short.

Okay…

“She and Elain were only a year apart. I didn’t come along until much later and by that point, I was just a nuisance and a distraction for my parents from giving them the attention they were used to. My parents split over summer and that seems to have been the final nail in the coffin. She’s had a stick up her ass ever since.

“So you see,” I said, leaning back around the seat to look at Cassian again, “you don’t want to bother yourself with her. Nesta is Nesta and nothing and no one has ever - or will ever - change that, including you. I don’t care if your bulky jock brain says otherwise.”

Cassian chuckled. “I’ll try to take that as a compliment.” If he wasn’t a jock, he didn’t care to deny it. He tipped his head back against the leather headrest of the seat seemingly amused and asked, “So where’s the Tool? Isn’t he supposed to be here today?”

I mouthed the word Tool before I realized who Cassian was referring to. My eyes went wide with shock. “Cassian,” Rhys hissed, glaring at him in the rear view mirror.

“You said you guys were brothers?” I shot at Rhys, wondering where in the hell Cassian had come from with his one-thousand interrogation questions and if Azriel would ever say anything to me at all.

“Not by blood, but as good as,” Rhys explained, his voice tight at the sudden mood swings of conversation. “Where are we going exactly?” I gave him clarifying directions and when we’d situated ourselves on a long stretch of the route that would take us nearly to the house, he continued. “I’ve known these pricks since I was a kid. Cass and I met in little league-”

“You were in little league?” I choked. Rhys waved me off proudly with his hand.

“Yes I was,” he said. “And I had baseball’s finest ass while I played, worthy of the big leagues.”

“That has got to be the vainest comment I have ever heard for a - what? Nine-year-old to be so self-aware of their own rear.”

Rhys leaned his head toward me and was completely serious as he said, “You would have drooled over my nine-year-old rear, Feyre.”

I narrowed my glare, aware of the twitch at my lips threatening to break free and tried not to imagine how his now 18-year-old rear might compare. His gaze danced all over my face and I sensed the cocky prick knew what I was thinking. “Eyes,” I warned and he promptly returned to driving, but not without a very smug look on his face.

“Azriel didn’t come along until middle school. He moved in across the street from me and well…” Silence dragged for a moment before I heard Azriel shift in his seat and that was the end of that conversation. I didn’t ask questions. “We’ve been thick as thieves ever since.”

Things were quiet again in the car and I was grateful just to sink into the drive even if I could feel Rhys’ thoughts on me the entire trip, sticking to my skin like glue. But every time I looked at him, the way his hands would tighten on the steering wheel like he wanted to hide them somewhere or how he’d lick his lips with the briefest of exhales as if he’d had trouble breathing, I realized he was nervous.

Rhysand, the confident boy who led student council meetings at school with the principal and administration heads, who walked up to my father and extended his hand the way he would meet the President of the United States and had prepared for it his entire life, was nervous sitting next to me.

“So about the Tool,” Cassian said out of nowhere. I whipped around, feeling suddenly very defensive despite my boyfriend’s failure to appear this morning outside my front door, much like… well much like Rhys had.

“Tamlin is not a tool!” I shouted.

“And yet, you knew exactly to whom I was referring.” Cassian’s arrogance mocked me with every word and I felt as if I could reach back and slap him, muscles and all.

“Cassian!” Rhys barked, nearly slamming on the breaks. I thought he might pull the car over, but he didn’t. “That’s enough.” And somehow, it really was. Cassian didn’t press the issue after that, understanding his captain’s orders, but he still couldn’t get his mind off my sister.

“Do you really think she wouldn’t go out with me?” he asked. I concentrated very hard on not rolling my eyes at him.

“No!” I protested.

“I bet she would. I bet by the end of the day, I can get her phone number.”

“Twenty bucks,” said a deep, velvet voice I wasn’t expecting, so much so that I jumped in my seat and embarrassingly looked at Azriel as if he were the ghost haunting my old house.

Cassian reached his arm out immediately and shook Az’s hand. “Deal.”

I was about to butt in to say they would do no such thing, that he was asking for it and it would be his funeral, but the car slowed to a halt as Rhys put it in park and I realized we’d arrived. At my new home.

A weight sank into my gut, my attention pulled back to the view of my dad jumping out of the truck already in the driveway, my sisters staring forlornly at the much smaller dwelling than they were used to. It wasn’t even a modern track home - a real horror for the pair of ‘em. I could see the ivy curling around the brickwork of the front facade. It had character, could even be considered charming if you didn’t mind that it was an older home, which I certainly didn’t.

Cassian and Azriel got out straight away to start unloading, but I was glued to my seat, my hands braced on the leather of the armrest.

“It’s okay, you know,” Rhys said, his voice quiet. I felt his fingers brush against my hand, not trying to pry, only to reassure. I wondered foolishly what it might feel like if he took it. I couldn’t remember the last time Tamlin and I had simply held hands and I missed it.

Why wasn’t he here?

“They hate it,” I said.

“Your sisters?”

I nodded, staring hard out the window at my broken family. And then it was all flooding out of me and I couldn’t stop it if I had wanted to. “They hate the move so much, the idea that we might be poor by horrifically shallow standards that they’re going to make my dad’s life a living hell because of it. Never mind that he already co-signed on their student loans and sends them money for the deposit on their apartment leases. Never mind that mom’s the one who left and took the bulk of the family’s income with her.”

“Elain’s in school too?”

“She’s in a PhD program like Nesta. Botany. You wouldn’t think it looking at all that polished lip gloss and mascara, but my sister’s quite the brainiac. They both are.” I sighed, blowing hot air through my lips as my gaze fell into a mess at my lap. “And college degrees are expensive.”

“Hey,” Rhys said, his fingers finding my chin and tilting my face until I was forced to look at him. “You want to get out of here? Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

And I could tell he meant it. All I would have to do was nod and he’d turn the keys and take off. His eyes pierced me with the intensity of his words. I was starting to wonder if I’d ever escape the violet depths of them.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at him, contemplating when the last time was anyone had asked what I wanted.

Voices shouted outside the car and my eyelids slammed shut. Rhys’ fingers dropped from my chin. “I have to go,” I said and bolted from the car before he could stop me.

“What do you mean there are only three bedrooms?” Nesta was hollering at my dad. I prayed the new neighbors weren’t around to hear it.

“Nesta, please,” my dad begged, begged at my sister, his voice suddenly low and raw, as if he were bleeding in front of her. “It’s all I could afford,” he whispered. Cassian and Azriel were already unloading the truck, pretending like they couldn’t hear but I knew they could. I wanted to rip my skin apart until the muscle underneath was exposed and then I would rip that apart too until I was bone and blood and dust. I’d never felt so mortified - and by my own family.

Our miseries were private, hidden away for no one to see. What would they say if they knew the reality?

My dad spotted me and his face crumpled, trying to look optimistic and failing miserably.

“Feyre!” he said before coming closer. “There’s only two rooms, but-”

“It’s okay,” I said, feeling my throat clench up. “Elain and I can share, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Over my dad’s shoulder, I heard Elain yelp in surprise.

“That’s very considerate of you, Feyre, but there is another option if you want it. The attic…”

I took a deep breathe. Of course. Because Heaven forbid Nesta or Elain draw the short stick for once. Silently, I nodded my acceptance. My dad kissed my forehead with a whispered, “Thank you,” and went to help the boys on the truck. I turned around and smacked straight into Rhys’ chest. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, just like he’d asked on the phone last night.

How can I help?

His arms found my shoulders, steadying me with his grip. And suddenly, I realized the gravity of the moment. The wrongness of it without Tamlin. He should have been the one standing there keeping me grounded while my family fell apart. Not this guy I barely knew, but who seemed willing to let the rest of the world burn if it meant he could make sure I was okay.

“Just help us unload, please,” I said, hating the way the words sounded on my tongue. I strode away as quickly as I could before the tears could start falling, grabbed a box at random, and rushed inside. I was lucky enough to grab one with my name on it, so I made straight for the attic.

Rhys appeared in the doorway a heartbeat behind me, setting a box of his own down. Thank goodness there was a stairway and not some rickety old drop down ladder I’d have to climb. He put his hands in his pockets and stared thoughtfully at me, giving me space to decide where this went from here.

“At least there’s a window,” I said, pointing above where a sizeable skylight was carved into the ceiling.

“Perfect for stargazing while you fall asleep,” Rhys said and brought himself to lay down directly underneath the opening. He put one arm behind his head for it to rest against and stared into crisp, blue sky above. He didn’t mention what had just happened and I was grateful. I found myself slipping down to lay next to him.

“Cassian realizes what he’s doing, right?” I asked. “About Nesta, I mean.”

Rhys chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he replied. “Cassian’s a shameless flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah, well, Nesta doesn’t do shameless flirting. She’ll eat him alive.”

“And you?”

“Pft!” I scoffed. “Trust me, I have no desire to eat anything out of Cassian.”

The snort that rippled out of Rhys was infectious, his entire body radiated with it. “I meant about the flirting,” he clarified and I could feel his head roll towards me. I found those near-violet eyes staring endlessly at me again and before I knew what I was doing, my eyes were looking him up and down, drinking the sight of him in. I pinched a spot on his stomach through his shirt and was met with hard muscle.

“Mmm, skinny,” I evaluated. “But I think I could find something to munch on.”

There was a certain daring to my tone that I wasn’t familiar with. The corners of Rhysand’s lips pulled up in surprise and my face flushed. Had he not expected me to answer?

And then it hit me all over again, the wrongness of the moment. Not even a full minute and I’d already forgotten how I’d felt smacking into him outside wishing it was someone else. What the hell was I doing?

And why did it feel like the only right thing going on in my life?

I sat bolt upright removing my hand quickly from his stomach and blurted, “I have a boyfriend,” cringing on the awkwardness of revealing a truth he was already well aware of.

“So?” he asked simply.

“So? So? So… this can’t be a thing.”

Rhys sat up beside me. “This? Feyre, what exactly do you think I’m doing here?”

“I don’t know, I just…” My shoulders fell and I collapsed inward on myself, finding it hard to think. “You show up here to help me move as if you’d known my family all your life making it very plain you’re aware of the fact that Tamlin’s not here when he should be-”

“In my defense, that was Cassian who pointed that out.”

“Still. And Cassian’s not the only one who can be a shameless flirt. You’re pretty good at it too.” I nudged him with my shoulder and he raised his brows in conceit. “So why come?”

He hesitated for half a second before plunging in. “Because when I saw you at Lucien’s party, you looked sad. More than sad, even. And when I told you about the dance, there was a spark in your eyes that I wanted to see again. But then I called you on the wrong day at the wrong time and you said Tamlin was ditching you when you needed him most even though you tried to make it sound like that’s not what he’s doing, but we both knew it was a lie. And I just didn’t want you to be alone today.”

He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just dropped a grenade onto my lap and pulled the pin.

“Is that so terrible?”

And when I thought about it, I realized it wasn’t. It was actually… kind of nice.

“So then… you’re not trying to put the moves on me?”

“I never said I wouldn’t like to, Feyre, darling,” he teased, but it was nothing more than that. Teasing. “But no, I’m not here to put ‘the moves’ on you. I just thought you could use an ally. It didn’t seem you had one.”

“Is it that obvious?” I said, my voice terribly low.

He nudged me back taking care to ensure the contact was broken completely when the motion had finished. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling alone sometimes, Feyre. The trick is learning how to understand when you’re not and making those moments last. And I do apologize - sincerely - if I’ve, ahem, overstepped.”

When I looked up, his eyes were watching me again full of that same soft expression that had gotten me through the morning thus far. An ally. I could get used to that, I thought. Slowly, with deliberate intention, I nodded and Rhys seemed to understand. And then he jumped up with the grace of a cat and pulled me to my feet.

“So where do we start with this place?” he asked.

“Just bring the boxes up for now. I want to paint it first before I do anything else.”

“You paint?”

“As if you didn’t know.” He snickered.

“What are you going to paint it?”

I shrugged, looking around and taking in the bare wooden walls that slanted at the sides to form my new home. The word still felt foreign in my mind in conjunction with this place, never mind saying it out loud. Maybe the paint would help. I’d never touched my old room with my liquid weapons. Not once.

But it was different here. I could feel it. This was my own little hovel - it deserved to be noticed.

“I don’t know. You got any ideas, Mr. Fine Ass?”

Rhys smirked, leaning against the door frame. “The night sky,” he said instantly. “That way you don’t have to wait to fall asleep to watch the stars shine for you and wish upon them.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Not at all.

When we stumbled back outside to collect more of my boxes, I found my eldest sister shouting - again. But after talking to Rhys, I didn’t feel quite so upset this time. And I was almost intrigued to watch Cassian stand there on the receiving end of Nesta’s wrath, wondering if he could actually pass the test.

A pile of books - Nesta’s books, her pride and joy above all else - sat in a heap on the grass. Cassian held a box that was far too flimsy to hold the weight of the books and had promptly split in two, dumping them on the ground. Nesta looked furious as she bent down to gather her children.

“You bastard!” she shouted, looking up at Cassian as her hands found a Russian language copy of War and Peace with a fresh tear down the front cover. Cassian looked smug, as if he’d been the one to tear the book and was proud of it.

“It’s not my fault you don’t take care of your things,” he said apathetically.

“Like you’d understand,” Nesta spat. “You wouldn’t understand finer things - art, literature,” and she shook the book at him, getting up from the ground, “if it jumped up and bit you on that hideous crooked nose of yours. This is culture!” Her tone shifted, grown suddenly solemn, the bite gone. “And you just dumped it in the grass like manure. Do you even realize…”

She stared down at her stack of books that she had poured the last ten years of her life into at school, genuinely hurt by what had happened, her own stupid fault for packing in a rush last minute. But it was so much emotion for such scraps at her feet - all she had left to tear her away from a life at home that disappointed her.

Who were Nesta’s friends? Did she have them or did she burn too passionately that the only ones who could take her in and understand were the ones at her feet without a voice to argue back against the fire devouring her?

And then, Cassian spoke, his voice taking on a soothing caress that was soft and caring, as if he did in fact realize what Nesta was saying. As if - he understood.

But that wasn’t what shocked me most. No, what shocked me was the fact that he was speaking to her in perfect, fluent Russian.

Nesta’s head snapped up as Cassian spoke, drawing herself level with him. Hesitantly, enough that I could tell she was tripping over her words despite the fact that I knew she spoke Russian just as well as Cassian apparently could, she replied. A brief exchange ensued and it was the calmest I had seen Nesta, maybe ever.

I looked at Rhys and saw a silent, knowing exchange pass between him and Azriel. So that was what the scoff in the car had been about. Heavens, I wanted to laugh.

Nesta snickered. Cassian repeated whatever he’d said.

Her eyes narrowed. His invited.

She muttered the lone Russian word I knew amid a handful - Yes - and stormed off into the house, a stack of books piled high in her arms.

Cassian went straight to Azriel, his hand outstretched. “You owe me twenty bucks, son.”

“No!” I gasped.

“Oh yeah,” Cassian whooped.

“You got her number?” Azriel asked.

“Better than that. I got a date.”

“No…” I breathed, my mind refusing to accept what he was saying. Rhys was laughing his ass off. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t have to say anything.” Cassian stretched his arms wide like a peacock ready to show off. “She’s warm for my form, what can I say? The accent probably helped too.”

“You’re disgusting,” I said, but my tone was more amused.

“Cassian’s dad was Russian ops,” Rhys explained next to me. “He’s been to Russia more times that he can count.”

Explained the muscles, I thought.

“So cough up,” Cassian said, again reaching his hand out to Azriel, who simply shook his head.

“You got a date,” Azriel said. “But the bet was that you’d get her number.”

“Oh come on!”

It was Azriel’s turn to hold out his hand. “Twenty big ones, if you please.”

Cassian dug his wallet out and handed over the cash. “Fucking Azriel,” he said under his breathe as he passed me and returned to the moving truck.

“Technically the bet was good until the end of the day,” I said, addressing Azriel directly for the first time. “Are you going to remind him?”

Azriel looked at me and then slowly, one delicate muscle at a time arched his lips into a faint smile. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, Feyre, darling,” Rhys said clapping Az on the shoulder. “Let’s go unpack ourselves a house.”

[outlawqueenbey]

Finding Home 5/??

He hadn’t actually believed it when his mom told him who was back. Had stood stunned in the kitchen, heart dropping into his stomach at the mention of his long lost brother’s name, a name he never thought he’d get a chance to hear again, let alone see his face.

It’s been eighteen years, and there hasn’t been a day gone by where he doesn’t miss them both, terribly. Sure, life goes on, the sun still rises and sets everyday, uncaring as the to torment the hours in between leave behind, and their life continued, fractured in an irreparable way, damaged beyond fixing, but it did. He grew up knowing there should be two more plates at dinner, more stockings at christmas above the fireplace, more memories and milestones to be shared, but there wasn’t any of that. For years he’d watched his mother slowly turn inward, hide from the world, a fraction of the person she once was.

It’s better now, with Maleficent, not the same, but better. The dragon fills at least a part of the hole in his mother’s heart, and she smiles more now, laughs a little more frequently, will even venture occasionally to Granny’s if he begs her to. But this time of the year is always exceptionally hard, no matter the time that has passed, it doesn’t get easier, knowing what they both lost. He feels the void, even today.

And while there is a plethora of male companions he can go to for advice, it’s not quite the same, he’s constantly left wondering what Robin would have told him, what words of wisdom, experiences and fatherly information he would have bestowed. Like how to muster up the courage to ask Violet out on a first date, or decide which university program was best, sneaking his first beer, how to fasten a tie, the necessities of wooing his lady love good and proper, what to do when things seemed to crash around him, how to make his mother smile when the world seemed to dark and dismal...he needed help, all these years, especially with that last thought.

Even Roland, that relationship he missed, terribly so. A younger brother to teach the ropes and ways of growing up. Being a confidant, a mentor, a brother to the enth degree. They could have had nights of hushed whispers under blankets while reading another story when they were supposed to be sleeping, learning how to shoot a bow and arrow together, Henry being the protector when kids at school decided to be bullies to his younger sibling. He could have taught him how to ride a bike, and figure out where Regina hid their christmas presents, proved that no matter what, he would always be there for him.

Neither situation got to play out. Was brutally taken from him in a matter of minutes, and left a family torn apart without even a band-aid to help it heal.

But the mention of his name, has Henry’s heart doubling over, that small once dead flicker of hope reigniting in the pit of his stomach. And yet... she doesn’t seem happy, or maybe that’s not the word. Pained? In turmoil over it? Which is odd, because he is nearly bouncing on his feet at the thought of seeing Roland again, buzzing in excitement, a complete opposite to how Regina simply stares down into a cold cup of milky chamomile tea, eyes glazed over, head hung low, shoulders slouched.

He knows she blames herself for what happened, shouldn’t, but does. There was no way any of this was her fault. Regardless of what other’s might whisper, she has no part in the blame for what conspired in those three days. People can be cruel in their judgements. Talk too loudly over breakfast and what she could have done, or should have done.

But the difference is, they weren’t there, staring actual death in the face, frozen to the spot, a half second too late before Robin had moved in the way, saving her like he always had. He’d love to see what they would have done, pretending to be all cool headed and confident minded, pathetic inconsiderate idiots. Regardless of how many times the real, genuine people in her life have promised it wasn’t her fault, he still see’s the uncomfortable guilt that clouds her eyes.

“So, how is he?”

Regina sighs, brushing back a lock of hair as Mal smoothes a palm across her back, gently kissing the crown of her head. “He’s so angry with me.”

“Why? He shouldn’t be. You had nothing to do with what happened Mom!”

“Henry—”

“No, Mom. It’s totally unfair to—”

“It’s completely fair.”

“What?”

“I was there when Robin died. I put him in that situation. I could have gotten us out of there.”

“Mom, no. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I appreciate you saying that, but Roland still has a lot of anger, rightfully so.”

They go silent, Regina shifting her cold tea away, Mal taking it with a sad smile and turning it down the sink, watching as the milky liquid seeps down the drain. They’d been doing well. Really well. But now, now she can barely get Regina to sleep for more than an hour, had to beg her to eat even a single meal or take a minute to breathe and assess what is happening, the sudden splitting of old wounds, bared fresh and raw.

All three of them know, most of the town does in fact, is privy to just how hard Regina tried to get her family back, to bring Robin back, because dammit if Hook, the one handed idiot pirate could escape Hell why couldn’t Robin, good hearted, pure and true Robin come back from wherever he is?. It was a heavy, dark sentiment that hung over Storybrooke as they watched their mayor, their once fearsome, unbreakable Queen, beg to the highest heavens through tears, nearly dying in violent swirls of magic, as she promised parts of her soul and heart if they could just bring them back.

Eighteen years later, they still hadn't answered.

The dragon sighs heavily, wishing there was something more she could do, something they haven't tried, an untapped magical source that could break the rules of life, just so she could see her love smile that smile again. The one that is locked away, peaking through in shy moments but running quickly back to its cage in the recesses of Regina's heart.

“I could talk to him.”

Their eyes meet, shock versus certainty matching one another. Her heart skips a beat at the look of pure conviction in his hazel eyes, she swells, glows with pride at her little boy, not so little anymore, the fierce belief in her, and her happy ending, intangible or not. Her son has been one of the few to still hold the candle of hope for her, even if the wax drips to the floor and the barely there wick, so short now, nearly burns his fingers with dying flame, he holds it.  

“You don't have to, Henry.”

He smiles, shifts his chair across the tiled kitchen floor, reaching across dark hickory dining table, linking their hands together, “You forget, he wasn't just your son, he was also my brother.” Regina nods, swallowing the burning lump in her chest, blocking her ability to take a real true breath. She knows he’s right, and if she opens her mouth, the lump with burst and she will cry, again, so instead she simply nods, hoping he understands, and he does, she knows he does.

They bid each other goodbye at the door, a hug from the Dragon, one that has Regina’s heart swelling over their relationship, and another for her, tight and filled with promise as he kisses her cheek, vowing to see her later for dinner so long as she is still making lasagna. She chuckles, hugs him one more time because a mother is allowed seconds, she tells him she loves him, he reciprocates with a quick kiss on her cheek and the door closes, shutting out the cold air, leaving her home feeling colder still.

.

..

…

..

.

He sees him sitting on the bench, knees bouncing sporadically as the snow puffs about his boots. He looks the same, bigger, obviously, filled out like a grown man, and Henry pauses at the fact that this person, his brother, isn’t the same boy he lost so long ago. Time changes people, and not always for the better. It’s with hopeful hesitation Henry trails forward, tugging his scarf around his neck as the snow swirls from the sky, it’s going to be a white christmas this year, that there is no doubt.

“Is this spot taken?”

Roland freezes, turning slowly to see Henry grinning down at him, and his heart burns as he looks into hazel eyes. It’s not really anger that floods through him, but pain, bitter pain. Brothers are supposed to protect one another, be there when the boogey man threatens to come out of the closet, save each other from monsters under the bed, be tied together in a way no one else is. Regina told him Henry would want to see him, not that he really believed her anyway, but here he is, not really knowing what to say, though his body shifts over to the left slightly, leaving some room for Henry to squeeze beside.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, Henry arching back into the bench, tugging his scarf around his neck, both watching the snowflakes gracefully float through the sky, landing on the peaks of the playground’s tops, lining the slide, slick and wet, and coating the swingset on the far side.

“I remember skipping lunch to come here.” He sighs heavy, “Before the first curse broke. I’d sneak off and just sit on the swings till night fell.”

“Why?”

Henry shrugs, itching his nose, “Well, some stupid kid at school asked where my dad was, and I didn't know, and then they asked why I didn't look like my mom, er- like Regina. It messed with me.” Their breath puffs out in unison as Roland watches his brother-- his used to be brother-- whatever, he watches Henry’s eyes slip down, it doesn't pass his notice just how much older he looks, no longer a teenager, scrawny and yet to fill out, but a grown man, thicker jaw line, a slight five o'clock shadow, and it makes sense, if he does the math. Henry was 15 when papa died, he’s nearly 33 now, with a wife and job, a family, something Roland himself clearly doesn't have. A pulse of envy bubbles deep in his gut as he adjusts his own coat, irritated at the tattered state and small patches on it that suddenly appear glaringly obvious compared to Henry's tightly woven, impeccably fitted navy blue peacoat. Just another thing he was denied growing up alone in the Enchanted Forest.

“I asked Regina about my dad and she froze, I remember the look in her eyes, the absolute fear in them when I asked why I didn't look like her or have a father like all the other kids.”

“I take it that's when you found out you were adopted.”

“And all hell broke loose. Yeah.” He chuckles sadly, “I had just gotten the storybook from Mary Margaret and everything suddenly got confusing. I pulled away from Regina, was so angry at her all the time, I felt like she didn't love me, she couldn't, the Evil Queen couldn't love anyone. I thought I was going crazy, at 10, had all this nonsense in my mind that felt like it made sense, by it was impossible, fairytales didn't exist.”

“No they sure don't...at least not the kind you read at night before bed, everything ending in a happily ever after.”

Henry stills at the iron in Roland's tone, the stone etched pain echoing across his face, and his heart sinks. His brother, long lost and found again, honestly doesn't believe in happy endings anymore. Gone is the effervescent bubbly nature that flowed through a young boy, the one who dreamed of becoming an outlaw, saving fair maidens, and fighting off dragons. There is no more wanderlust for adventure in the dark moody brown eyes anymore.

“Do you ever regret it?”

“What?”

“Going to find Emma?”

Henry frowns, because in truth there had been times where maybe regret wasn't the right word, but guilt perhaps, for when Emma came into the picture, Regina was thrown out, for a long time, has been left with wounds that still bleed from time to time.

“Yes and no.” He swallows, trying to figure out how to best explain something he doesn't exactly understand completely himself yet, and may never. “I don't regret going to find Emma, but I regret how certain things played out because I brought her here to break the curse.”

“What do you mean?”

He shuffles, brushing off a layer of snow on his pants, puffing out a heavy breath, this wasn't exactly the conversation he’d planned for when he sought Roland out. “If I never found Emma, if I had just learned to accept that I was adopted, there is always a small part of me that wonders if I could have spared Regina a lot of pain, maybe she and I could have been honestly happy just with it being the two of us.”

“What about the storybook?”

“I was 10, I figure eventually I would have grown out of it and moved on.”

“But then you wouldn't have your family.”

“True, I wouldn’t have this family, but maybe I would have had another.”

They both go still, opting to stare out into the distance instead of looking into the sad entity of one another.

“Sometimes I wish you hadn't either.”

Henry arches an eyebrow in question, but waits, watches as Roland tugs on a hole in his glove, he'll have to grab him a new pair at some point soon. “If you hadn't gone to find Emma, I might still have my dad.”

It takes him a minute to connect the dots, how one decision he made when he was just 10, had so drastically influenced the life of another he’d yet to know, but it’s there, in a thin finite glimmering thread he follows, the connection is apparent. Had he not found Emma, there would have been no curse breaking, no Neverland, no need to destroy Pan, no missing year, no Regina meeting Robin Hood and by default Roland, thus no love found between them all. Had he just chosen to love Regina all those years ago and be okay give up on fairy tales, maybe Roland would still have his father. It’s a sour pit in his stomach. He had to find Emma. But suddenly, the results of his actions seem a bit too ugly now that they stare him right in the face, a sentiment his adoptive mothers once spat at his birth mother, taking action without thinking of the consequences, and those who get hurt and left behind in the wake.

“I don’t blame you.” Roland sighs, running his gloved hand over his face, scowling at their tattered state, thread tugged apart, gaping holes that let in the foul cold, “But sometimes I just wonder,” He swallows hard, frowning at the snowflakes that fall, “If the good times were really worth going through the bad.” Roland winces as he bites down on his lower lip, and Henry tenses at the expression. For a moment, he looked just like Robin, the same distant pained dancing across his face, one Henry had seen in the quiet moments, usually with Regina already fallen asleep on Robin’s chest, his step father silently staring out the window as his fingers carded through her hair, with that look, the one he has come to understand as fear. Fear for what has already been taken unfairly, and what could still be torn  apart, fear of not living up to a promise of never leaving again when the world can be so unkind. The memory burn hots in Henry’s gut, how the usual bright blue had clouded over, slinking into a dark stormy grey, the desperate need to protect the same person, though from who was still unknown. Robin promised to do better by her, Henry still stiffened in defence of a broken heart he knew wasn’t quite healed yet. They’d let it all go, one night in Camelot, had broken down the barrier, vowed that together, they would protect Regina.

“I had a family, we were a family, and then it was just gone.” The defeated whisper tugs Henry  back from the memory, shoulders slouch in unison, the need for a stiff whiskey incredibly apparent, as both men, no longer boys, try to swallow the taste of loss.

“And I can’t help but think, every time you were taken away, or separated from Regina, she tried to find you, didn’t stop holding onto you, even if it was just fractions of you, at least she tried.”

Roland’s heart hammers hard in his chest, the pang of jealously ricocheting around, as he shifts, disturbing the snow on the bench, biting back the green monster inside while sitting next to the child that was worth the fight to get back echoes about him, resonating deep in the crevasses inside. What was so special about Henry that he didn’t have, or wasn’t worth. Everyone knew Regina would walk through fire and hell to get Henry back, but Roland… well for a woman who claims to have missed him so much it tore her apart, as she had put it back at the diner, it still sank like a brick, one child was good enough and one simply wasn’t, words be damned, actions always speak louder.

They sit, side by side, quietly contemplating the next move. Henry can tell Roland is tense, ready to run, his knee has yet to cease bouncing up and down, and the hole in his glove has grown twice in size. He’s honestly not really sure how to navigate these waters. Sure, he’s dealt with painful loss, but this hits so close to home, iron branded burn in the meat of his heart, he feels disconcertingly caught between consoling a lost brother, and defending a grieving mother.

She didn’t mean for it to happen, for her entire world to come crumbling down within a matter of seconds. Seconds that have replayed over and over in her mind for hours on end, the torturous continuing stream of what if’s, and why didn’t you’s. It took the town quite sometime to come to that realization, that in the end, magic be damned, Regina is still just a person, and sometimes the unthinkable can happen even to the most resilient of people.

“You know Roland, she did try.” He shakes his head sadly, knowing the scars from magic that now lace her heart and soul, “For years. Harder than you probably even understand.” They fall back into a quiet silence, and though it may not be his story to truly tell, this fracture between his mother and brother isn’t going to be solved if either party are too afraid to ask the hard questions and hear the even worse answers. “I think that you should talk to her.”

“I did.”

“What did she tell you?”

Roland shuffles, making little footprinted snow angels in the ground, which makes Henry smile, because it’s there, hidden deep down, the wonderment of a young boy, trapped inside the hollow bitterness of a grown man.

“She said that my dad died trying to save her from Hades.” Henry nods, cause it’s true, and sits muted. “She said that she made a mistake in the underworld giving my sister to that woman, and when they got home, she’d given her to Hades, and then Regina and Dad went to go save her.” It doesn’t pass Henry the unmention of Zelena’s name, understandable given everything she took from him, the lies, the terror, the death. “Hades went to use the Olympian Crystal on Regina, and Dad jumped in the way.”

His heart burns at the thought, that without even thinking his Papa made a snap decision that would ruin Roland’s life effectively. The pit in his stomach scorches, eats away at the small dim nuggets of hope, swallows them whole. How dare he! How dare he just not think and leave him behind. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. Papa should have been thinking about what he was doing, stepping in front of that crystal. But he didn’t, and once again the actions lead to the worst, most heartbreaking consequences.

Henry can feel it too. The anger that radiates from the other man. The dark painted scowl that blows through dark brown eyes, devastating, overwhelming feeling of being lost, forgotten, unloved. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have birthdays, and Christmases together. Spend summers out by a lake camping, learning how to shoot bow and arrows, roast smores, go on trips, have lazy sunday’s in pajamas watching cartoons and stuffing themselves on pancakes.

“I know it’s not the same, and I never want to take anything from you,” Henry clears his throat, tugging his coat back around his shoulders as he stands, “but I hope you realize that I lost a dad too that day, a second dad, one that had actually been in my life for more than a few days.” Their eyes meet, and Henry passes a small sad smile, “We both lost parents that day, and not just a dad.”

It’s with that Henry turns, patting Roland on the shoulder as he stares off into the distance, frown lines hard set against the chill of winter, and Roland waits, listens to each and every step Henry takes away, till the rumble of a car engine sounds and the forest around him finally goes quiet once more. We both lost parents that day, and not just a dad…. For whatever reason, Henry’s parting burns hot in his stomach. He lost a mom and a dad, Henry lost a step-dad, how was that even the same? It’s not, he has no right to compare them. Where he was allowed to stay, live in the mansion, with Regina, with a mother, and feel loved, and wanted, the same certainly didn’t go for Roland. The Merry Men did their best, sure, but it’s not the same as a mother, as the constant affection he’d come to know under Regina’s love.

She chose Henry, not him.

And yet...the way Henry said it, not just a dad… it’s just off, the tone in his voice a distant and fractured, pained distress coating each decibel, maybe something happened with Regina, after losing Papa? Perhaps his resentment was clouding his judgement, voiding another layer, a more important layer of her’s, he’d been blind too. He know’s they were soulmates, has heard the tale from many parties, Regina and Papa included, and maybe that’s it, the piece he can’t seem to grasp just yet, maybe losing a soulmate damages the survivor irreparably, maybe she couldn’t come find him.

“My guess is that she didn’t tell you about the state of her heart now.”

Roland frowns, turning to Henry who stares out into the distance sadly. She hadn’t. He had gotten up and left before she could. It was too much, hearing how Papa died. He didn’t want to know anymore. He’d stormed out of the diner, leaving her with watery red tear stained eyes and a cold coffee.

“You should ask her.”

“Why?”

“I think you’d understand better. And I think, if you really know the truth of just how hard she tried, what she has given up, the prices she has paid trying to get you both back, I honestly believe it will bring you both some needed healing.”

Henry stands, patting Roland on the shoulder, wishing to the highest of heavens that it could bring him some sense of security, though he knows until his brother knows the whole sad truth, that desperate feeling of safety will never wrap its arms around him again.

“You should come to dinner tonight.”

.

..

…

..

.

The mansion is quiet, as usual, the light acoustic melody playing in the background, bouncing off the walls that don’t hear much happiness normally. Mal is in the kitchen, flicking her gaze between the pasta sauce, bubbling merrily away on the stove, and Regina who stares miserably down at the second mug of tea, now gone frigidly cold. She barely saw her love when the front door closed early in the afternoon.

They’d talked about Roland all night, Mal finally convincing Regina to go back and find him, she wouldn’t heal the bleeding wounds without doing so. But now, it seems as though those lesions have only cratered further, tugging the brunette down a dark spiralling hole. Even Henry, who had come home earlier hasn’t really been able to rouse her out of the despairing state she is in.

“You need any help Mal?”

“I’m good, thanks Henry. Why don’t you get your mom a glass of wine, and set the table.” She wipes her hands on the purple apron, one she had absolutely refused to wear a few years back. Funny how things can change. “I’m almost done here anyway.”

He nods, grabs the bottle from the liquor rack and four glasses, the addition has Mal’s eyebrow cocking at the young man, who simply shrugs, sheepishly smiles as he looks towards his mom twirling her spoon in the cold tea, “I’m hoping.”

“Me too.”

It’s nice. Dinner. Mal and Henry do everything they can to get Regina to talk. Pulling her into the conversation about where Henry and Violet are planning for a summer trip. He is thinking Amsterdam, his wife would prefer the south of Italy. He will go wherever she wants really, is happy to just spend time with his girl exploring.

“I’ve always wanted to see Romania.” Mal quips through a gulp of wine, “They have some pretty impressive history.”

“Dragons and Vampires?” Henry jabs back, chucking as Mal rolls her blue eyes, shrugging it off with a wave of her hand. “What about you Regina?”

“What?”

She reaches across the table, lacing her fingers into Regina’s who frowns at the both of them, her mind clearly somewhere else, with someone else, and it makes Mal’s heart ache. “If you could go on vacation anywhere, where would you choose?”

“Oh. Uh. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

They grow quiet, Henry forking another mouthful of roasted pepper linguini, and he has to hand it to the dragon, her cooking skills, while usually on the spicier side, is actually quite impressive. Regina doesn’t really cook that much anymore. Does when no one is home, he is quite frequently granted with her leftovers, but he’s rarely gotten the opportunity to watch her in the kitchen. It’s another sore spot. She was teaching Robin to cook, before he died. They’d spend hours there, covered in sauces and doughs, his bewildered uncertainty at most of the appliances had Regina laughing that sweet pure sound Henry so solemnly gets to hear anymore. The toaster was a complete no for Robin, who’d claim it was unnatural, though they all knew the contraption had scared the piss out of him one morning, he’d never touched the thing since.

“What about Australia?”

“Oh, the warm weather and beaches. Good one. Or maybe Egypt.”

“Rome?”

“Costa Rica?”

The two of them go back and forth for a few minutes, debating where the best spots would be, where had the most culture, the greatest food, most spectacular landscapes, both deciding that a beach was a necessity, given the frigid cold winters Maine always is thrust into, the thought of hot sun and warm sand a definite must.

“Jasper.”

The word is so low, they both nearly miss it, but Regina sighs, runs her hand through her hair, lets her fork clink down onto her plate as she reaches for her wine, letting the dark red liquid swirl a few times before she takes a grateful sip.

“Like Jasper, Canada?” Henry questions, not really knowing why she’d pick there of all places.

She nods, licks her lips and lets her eyes roam to a photo he knows it right behind him. A picture Mary Margaret had captured one day, his mom and Robin wrapped up in each other's arms, her forehead resting on his chest, a quiet moment of peace frozen in time, surrounded by the forest in Camelot, thick full tree’s covering the skies, if looked at closely, her smile is visible, happily buried underneath a curtain of hair, Robin’s own breathed into her head. It’s one of the only pictures they have together.

“He had mentioned one time that the landscape here was abysmal compared to the Enchanted Forest, and he missed it.” She swallows thick, sniffing the onslaught of tears that burn the backs of her eyes. “I bought him a book, uh, The Top 10 Forests in the World. He probably read it a good ten times before deciding he wanted to see Jasper National Park.” Her smile is feeble, melted away by the tremble in her lower lip, the pain palpable in the dining room.

“Maybe we could still go?” Henry shifts, reaching across the oak table to grab her hand, holding her slender palm tight in his own. How small is mother truly is, hasn’t ever really escaped him. This quote on quote All powerful, mightier than thou, wielder of dark and light magic, is really nothing but his compact mom. Can gain some serious respect in a well tailored suit and high manicured arched eyebrow, but he can fold her into his arms like a child, The Great and Mighty Queen.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She replies completely non-committal, knowing it won’t actually ever happen, because she couldn’t go without him. It wouldn’t be impossible to walk through the evergreen without his hand locked into hers. Can’t fathom the thought of sitting around a campfire at night, counting constellations without his warm timber voice nestled into her ear. It just wouldn’t be right without him.

The talk a little while longer, mulling over what to do for the weekend, Christmas is coming, the town is preparing its annual holiday fair, one Regina makes a single Mayoral attendance to, and then retreats back to the house where decorations are sparse. A knock at the door, breaks their conversation, and the recoil in Regina’s shoulders is visible, her hands tightening around the near empty wine glass. Henry stands, waving her movement to answer it, and jogs lightly to the door.

It leaves Mal and Regina at the table alone for a moment, a sweet kiss pressed into the brunette’s temple, “We can always go to Jasper if you want, you know that right?”.

“I know. I just…”

“I know. Whenever you’re ready.”  Maleficent kisses her love one more time, and settles back into the wooden chair, and her heart skips a beat when Henry walks back into the dining room, grinning from ear to ear, and it seems his hope has won out.

“Is there an extra plate?”

Regina spins, jaw dropping, soul jolting as both, not just one, but both her boys stand around the table. She finds his eyes, timid and scared, and yet they hold strong, and something long forgotten flickers in the bottom of her heart when his dimples flash quickly through a hesitant smile. Mal nods, conjures up a quick plate, and Roland saddles beside Regina, not once looking at the meal in front of him, just only at her.

“Smells good.”

“Mal is quite the chef these days.” Henry chuckles, sending a wink towards the Dragon.

“You don’t happen to have some more wine do you?”

It takes Regina a second, as her hands shake grabbing the second bottle, hovering it above his empty glass, and there is a hundreds things she wants to say to him, a thousand more she needs to tell him, and yet, the only thing that escapes her has the entire table bubbling over in laughter as she questions out “Are you old enough to drink?” The mother in her flourishing for a half beat before she realizes what she just did, flushes with embarrassment, and hands Roland the bottle, who pours himself a glass.

And she can’t stop staring at him, at her family who sitting at her table, the pulsating in her heart erratic, ricocheting about her chest as she listens to Henry ask Roland where he’d go on vacation if he could pick. His answer “I dunno, but here seems like a good start.” flooding Regina’s eyes with fresh tears she desperately tries to blink away, but his hand grabs hers, under the table, laces them together and squeezes tight. She holds onto him for dear life, fearing if they part she will float away, and she lets her gaze drift back to the last vacant seat at the oakwood dining table, one that sits deserted beside her, and it hurts, brutally so, but her hand is still locked into Roland’s, and that puts the first bandaid on her broken heart.